The Vanishing Point (10 page)

12

W
hile I was working on the first draft, Scarlett and I met up once or twice a week. Mostly we got together for lunch in town, but she did come back to the house a couple more times. By now, we both knew we were going to be pals. But there was business to be done too. The plans for the wedding were rattling on, including the selling of the exclusive stories. In spite of Georgie’s entirely reasonable protestations that I wasn’t a journalist, Scarlett had insisted I was the only writer she would talk to. So as well as sorting out the book, I had to write a big magazine piece and a newspaper special about the bloody wedding.

It was like wrestling cats. Neither Scarlett nor Joshu seemed to have the slightest interest in talking about their love, their wedding or married life and parenthood. In the end, I drove out to the hacienda when I knew they’d both be home and corralled them in the Western-themed living room, where I forced them to give me enough quotes to cobble something together.

While I played at being a journalist, Scarlett was reading the first draft of the book. We were up against it now, since Stellar Books wanted simultaneous publication with the wedding. Thankfully, Scarlett liked what I’d done, only asking for a few minor changes where I’d misunderstood what she’d been trying to say in her Scarlett Harlot persona. By the week of the wedding, the book was at the printer and the articles were with their respective publications. I had fulfilled my end of the professional bargain.

That only left the personal stuff. My invitation had been for both Pete and me. I’d dithered over whether I should even tell him about it. He’d probably be working. And he wouldn’t want to come anyway. In the end, I decided not to mention it. I realise I was taking the coward’s way out, but I just wanted to enjoy the day without feeling crap about myself. I knew there would be lots of photos in the press, but I reckoned I could stay out of the front line. Nobody would be interested in me when there was a whole raft of C-list slebs to choose from.

The happy couple were dressed to the nines. Scarlett’s dress was a miracle of designer finesse. Although she was almost eight months gone, so artfully was the ivory silk dress cut and styled, the pregnancy barely showed. A froth of lace and gold thread surrounded her head in an extravagant halo, turning her into a
Yes!
magazine madonna. Joshu had cleaned up nicely too. His morning suit fitted perfectly, his hair was neatly barbered and he appeared to be drug-free. I wished for his sake that his family had been there to see how beautifully turned out he was. Mind you, given his adamantine conviction that his mother would not be happy till she saw Scarlett stoned in the street, it was probably as well they’d stayed away.

The ceremony itself was surprisingly dignified. They’d opted for a non-denominational service with a spiritual dimension. The readings were genuinely moving, the music had not been mixed or juggled by Joshu, and because they held it in the morning, before most of the guests had started drinking, nobody disgraced themselves in public. I was amazed; the media were disappointed.

By the end of the evening, the hotel ballroom wasn’t trashed, though the majority of the guests were. The groom included. Scarlett had spent most of the wedding reception sprawled on a banquette with a cushion rammed into the small of her back. She’d held court, graciously air-kissing everyone who wanted to stop by and be snapped with her. But I could see that she was starting to wilt.

I found Joshu in the bar with a gaggle of his buddies. His tie dangled from his collar, his coat was slung over a chair and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He was the very picture of ruined debauchery. It was clear there was no prospect of calling on him to rescue his wife from her hangerson. I left him to it, wondering if this would end up being the impetus for the first of many marital rows. At least he wouldn’t ruin the honeymoon.

There wasn’t going to be one.

Well, not for a while anyway. Scarlett’s pregnancy was so advanced no airline would touch her as a passenger. And neither Scarlett nor Joshu could conceive of a honeymoon that didn’t involve intercontinental air travel. The plan was that they’d have a quiet couple of days at home. The honeymoon would have to wait until the baby was old enough to make it to the Maldives. So it wasn’t like Joshu was strictly necessary for this part of the proceedings.

My next best option was George. But he was nowhere to be found. I did eventually stumble on Carla, his assistant. She was fawning drunkenly over a minor soap star but she unpeeled herself long enough to reveal that George had left hours ago. She did, however, have the details of the car service that had been detailed to take the newlyweds home.

I called the driver and told him to be outside in five minutes. I sidled along the banquette next to Scarlett and leaned over to mutter in her ear. ‘I think you’re about to turn into a pumpkin. I’ve ordered the car.’

She turned and kissed my cheek. ‘I love you, Steph,’ she said. ‘Come on then. Since my husband’s neither use nor ornament, you’d better keep me company.’

‘I wasn’t planning . . .’

‘Aw, come on, Steph, it’s my wedding night and I can’t even get pissed. The least you can do is come home and have a laugh with me.’ She pulled a pitiful face and whimpered like a puppy.

And so Scarlett ended up sneaking out of her own wedding reception with her ghost. We giggled all the way back to Essex, cheerfully ripping into the wedding guests, their outfits and the more outlandish bits of behaviour on display. But by the time we got back to the hacienda, Scarlett was definitely running out of steam. She could barely get out of the back of the limo, and under the security lights she looked drawn and frail. She threw her arm round my waist for support and together we hobbled inside. I tried to get her to go straight to bed, but she just groaned and subsided on to one of the sofas. ‘I need to get out of this bloody frock,’ she complained. ‘But I can’t be arsed.’

I went off to the kitchen to make tea. When I returned, she’d crawled out of the confines of her dress and was half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa in a sheer silk slip, the kettle drum of her belly tight against the material. ‘What a day,’ she sighed. She held her left hand up to the light and admired the big chunk of gold on her ring finger. ‘Mrs Patel.’ She sniggered. ‘They’d love that back in Holbeck.’

‘Holbeck?’

‘Leeds’ answer to the Lost Continent. Where I grew up. Where half the population are British Asian and the other half think the BNP are too bloody left-wing. You know what, I think I’m going to stick to my own name.’

‘Did you miss your family?’

‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Did I tell you, my mum tried to get in touch? The publicity must have penetrated her drunken haze. Either that or my sister put her up to it. Thinking there was maybe an earner in it for them. Luckily, the only number she’s got for me is Georgie. When push comes to shove, there’s nothing like having the posh gits on your side. They totally know how to put the fear of God up the lower orders. He menaced the living shit out of her. Told her he’d set the five-oh on her and all sorts. So she backed off. And I’m not sorry. I’d have spent the whole bloody day wondering when it was all going to go off.’

I yawned. ‘Fair enough.’ I stood up. ‘And now I’m heading for home.’

‘Aw no, Steph,’ Scarlett protested, pushing herself upright. ‘You can’t leave me all alone on my wedding night. That would be so wrong.’

I laughed. ‘Can you imagine what the red-tops would make of that? “Scarlett Harlot spends wedding night with ghost.” No, I’d better get back.’

‘No, seriously, Steph. I don’t want to be alone in the house tonight.’ All at once, the frivolity had dissipated. Scarlett was deadly serious. ‘I feel like shit and I don’t want to be alone.’

I could see she wasn’t joking. I didn’t want to be stranded out in the wilds of Essex, but I didn’t want to let her down either. Typical of that useless wanker Joshu, leaving her on her tod on her wedding night because he was too busy playing the big-time DJ with his mates. ‘I’ll tell the car to go, then,’ I said with as good grace as I could muster.

We parted for the night almost as soon as I returned, Scarlett plodding wearily up the stairs while I headed down the hall to the guest rooms by the pool area. The room I chose was already made up, as immaculate and impersonal as a hotel room, save for the large fluffy chimpanzee perched on the pillow. I wondered if that was Scarlett’s inspired choice or something that had been left behind by the previous owner. In the chest of drawers, as promised, there was a folded stack of unisex nightshirts. The bathroom cabinet held sealed packets of toothbrushes, disposable razors and condoms. Expensive toiletries lined the shelf in the shower cubicle. Given the paucity of Scarlett’s experience, I suspected George had given instructions to Carla or the cleaning service.

I barely had the energy to undress and clean my teeth. Next day, I had the wedding chapter to write. The very thought of it was enough to drain the last drops of energy from my weary body. I swear I was asleep before I closed my eyes.

13

I
t was the sudden bright light that woke me from the depths of sleep. Blinking, I cried out as I pushed myself upright. ‘Sorry,’ Scarlett gasped. ‘But I think the baby’s coming.’ She was leaning in the doorway clutching her bump and sweating like a field hand in high summer. ‘I woke up all wet,’ she said. ‘My waters broke. And I keep getting these contractions.’

I jumped up and ran to her. I put my shoulder under her arm and guided her to the bed. ‘Lie down,’ I said. All I knew about giving birth was what I’d learned from film and TV over the years. Right then, it did not feel anywhere near enough. ‘How often are you having the contractions?’

‘I don’t fucking know,’ she yelled, doubling over in pain and groaning through clenched teeth. It seemed to last for ever, but according to my watch it was only about twenty seconds. After it passed, she visibly relaxed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked up at me, piteous as a frightened child. ‘It fucking hurts, Steph.’

‘How long has this been going on?’ I asked.

‘When we were at the hotel, my tummy started to feel a bit crampy. Like when you’ve got trapped wind, you know? I thought it was because I’d eaten too much crap. I’ve had indigestion for about six weeks. I thought it was the same kind of thing. But this isn’t wind, Steph.’ She breathed heavily.

‘Are you booked in at a local hospital?’ I asked.

‘Course not. I’m booked into St Mary’s, Paddington. Where Princess Diana had her boys.’

I couldn’t help giggling. ‘You are such a pro, Scarlett. Always an eye on the headlines.’

‘What? You think I did this because it’s what brainless bimbos do? Think again.’ She groaned. ‘I figure they wouldn’t have let Diana go anywhere except the best. That’s why I chose it. Because if anything goes wrong, that’s where I want to be.’

‘So who do I call?’

‘There’s a Louis Vuitton holdall in the bottom of the walk-in wardrobe in my bedroom. Bring it down, would you? There’s a folder in it with all the details. Arrgh!’ This time she yelled like a wounded pirate. According to my watch, it had been a fraction under three minutes since the previous contraction. That didn’t sound good to me.

Fifteen minutes later, I was reversing out of the garage in Joshu’s ridiculous Golf. When I’d explained the situation to the duty midwife, she’d told me to bring Scarlett in straight away. I tried to get a limo, but the company Scarlett used had nobody available for at least an hour. I didn’t want to call a cab because that would have been like direct-dialling the red-tops. I tried Joshu, but his phone went straight to voicemail. So it was down to me. Three in the morning, there wouldn’t be much traffic. And I’d stopped drinking around six hours earlier. I’d probably be OK. But there was no way Scarlett would be OK in the little bucket seat of her car.

I wasn’t paying much attention to the speed limit, which was pretty dim, given what I was driving. I’d barely hit the A13 when my rearview mirror lit up with flashing blue lights. To tell you the truth, I was actually quite relieved. Scarlett’s contractions seemed to be coming closer together and with more intensity. I was starting to feel a bit worried.

The traffic cop who swaggered up to my driver’s window looked visibly shaken at the sight of a woman in her thirties behind the wheel of the pimpmobile. He was even more disconcerted when Scarlett started shouting from the back seat.

‘Give us a fucking escort,’ she yelled.

‘She’s in labour,’ I said. Pretty needlessly, I thought.

‘Is that—’

‘Yes,’ I said impatiently. ‘And if we don’t get her to hospital soon, you might find yourself in the headlines for making a roadside delivery.’

I could see the cogs turning. ‘OK. Follow me.’ He turned and headed back for his car.

‘Wait,’ I yelled. ‘You don’t know where we’re going.’

He turned, laughing. ‘You’re going to the nearest hospital. She’s in no condition to wait.’

He’d get no argument from me, though Scarlett was swearing like it was an Olympic sport. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the pain or because her carefully orchestrated plans had all gone tits-up.

By the time we got to the hospital, Scarlett was mostly howling like a wolf or whimpering like a chained-up puppy. Sod compassion. All I wanted was for it to stop. I got my wish soon enough. The moment we arrived, Scarlett was whisked away on a trolley and I was directed to the reception desk to book her in. I thanked the cop, who was already preening himself at the desk. ‘I called ahead,’ he said. ‘That’s why they were waiting for her.’

‘I know she’ll appreciate it when she comes out the other side of this,’ I said.

‘Are you her PA, then?’

‘No, I’m her friend.’ I caught his sceptical look and checked myself out. A pair of Scarlett’s joggers, about four inches too short for my longer legs. A sagging T-shirt sized for her bosom rather than mine. It had been that or my best frock, which didn’t seem quite the thing for a hospital dash in the middle of the night. I looked more like a cleaner than any PA I’d ever met, apart from the fuck-me party shoes. But I wasn’t about to explain myself to a cop. Instead, I made a point of getting a piece of paper from the receptionist and taking down his details. George could send him a bottle of Scotch later.

When it came to booking Scarlett in, I was impressed by how much detail I had at my fingertips. Date of birth, full name, address. I even knew where her GP’s surgery was because I’d picked up a prescription one afternoon on my way out to her place. At least it made me look credible in the eyes of the receptionist. I really knew her. I wasn’t just some passing stalker.

Up on the ward, I felt like I’d stepped into a no man’s land between two irreconcilable states. On the one hand, the calm and capable midwives. On the other, the women crazed with pain, fear and discomfort. I found Scarlett in a small side room, squatting on the floor in a hospital gown. ‘Are you OK?’ I said. ‘Sorry, that’s a really stupid question. What have they said?’

‘Nothing much.’ She groaned. ‘Somebody’s coming to examine me properly in a minute.’

‘I’m going to go and try to get hold of Joshu again,’ I said.

‘No,’ she yelled, reaching out and grabbing my wrist like a vice. ‘Stay here with me. I don’t want that useless twat. It’s our wedding night and where is he?’ Another contraction gripped her and she subsided on to the floor, holding her bump and rocking from side to side. I was pretty sure this wasn’t the best idea.

I didn’t have to make the call, luckily. A strapping Scottish midwife strode in and got Scarlett on to the bed apparently by magic. ‘Doctor will be along in a minute,’ she said. ‘Are you the birth partner?’ I said no, Scarlett said yes. The midwife gave a prim little smile. ‘That’ll be a yes, then. Now we’ve got her on her side, you can rub her back.’ Then she was gone.

‘This is not a good idea,’ I said. ‘I’ve no bloody idea what to expect.’

‘A baby. That’s what I’m expecting.’ Scarlett gave a feeble chuckle. ‘I’m the one doing all the work, Steph. You just have to be here.’

And so I was. Because I hadn’t a clue what was going on, it’s hard to describe what happened over the next four hours. I know they gave her an epidural almost as soon as the doctor examined her. Between that and the gas and air she was sucking on, Scarlett wasn’t making much sense about anything. ‘They zone out in the second stage,’ the midwife said, as if that was an explanation. She might as well have said, ‘Cabbages dance on the moons of Jupiter,’ for all the sense it made to me. I kept stroking her back and her head and her hands and mumbling platitudes. And trying not to pay too close attention to the business end of things.

The professionals didn’t appear worried. It all seemed to be going calmly and smoothly. Until it wasn’t. The medical team didn’t flap or raise their voices. But all of a sudden there was a flurry of activity. There were more people in the room and they looked more serious, as if something had happened to make them stop coasting and pay particular attention. Scarlett seemed oblivious; she was sweating and swearing and panting and proving remarkably obedient to the midwife’s instructions.

‘What’s happening?’ I chose my words carefully. I wanted to ask what was wrong but I didn’t want to frighten Scarlett.

‘The baby’s got a big head,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s stuck in the birth canal.’

‘That’s not what’s supposed to happen, right?’

She gave me an impatient glance. ‘No. We’re going to take Scarlett through to another room, where we can carry out procedures more easily.’ As she spoke, the nurses were raising the sides of the bed and freeing the wheels from their brakes.

‘Procedures? What procedures?’

‘We’re going to try something called a ventouse,’ she said. By now, we were both following the bed down the hall.

‘What’s that?’

‘Think sink plunger. Only kinder. Have you done
any
preparation for this?’ she said as I trotted after her into a large room kitted out like a set from
Casualty
.

‘I wasn’t expecting to be doing this,’ I said with some asperity. ‘She’s got a husband.’

The doctor tipped her head towards me and smiled. ‘You’re doing OK for a first reserve. Now keep out of our way.’

In a few moments, everything had changed. Now I was in the thick of a medical process. Scarlett wasn’t an individual any more; she was a patient. A body to be worked on. A problem to be solved. It wasn’t that anyone was unkind or careless of her. It was simply that kindness wasn’t a factor in what was happening now. There was a sense of urgency in the room that hadn’t been there before. Fear had taken up residence in the back of my throat and I felt on the verge of tears.

A few minutes in, a passing nurse said over her shoulder, ‘Things will move fast now. We have to make sure the baby’s getting enough oxygen.’

She was right. I was at the heart of a whirlwind of action. Apparently the ventouse wasn’t working. The baby was stuck fast. All at once we were on the move again. A clipboard appeared out of nowhere with a pen tied to it. The doctor put the pen in Scarlett’s hand as we headed back out into the corridor. ‘You need to give your consent,’ she said, sounding much more relaxed than anybody looked.

‘Consent for what?’ How could this be consent? Scarlett was off her head on pain relief and pain itself.

‘We need to do an emergency C-section,’ the doctor said. She looked around and snagged one of the nurses. ‘You, help Stephanie here. She needs to get gowned up and into theatre.’

‘Me?’ I yelped. ‘Surely you don’t expect—’

‘Just do it. Please,’ the doctor said as they all disappeared round a corner.

I let myself be led away. The nurse opened a cupboard and gave me a quick assessing look before yanking out a set of green scrubs. ‘What’s going on?’ I said.

‘You need to get changed. Hurry,’ she said, leading me to a cubicle. ‘They can’t get the baby out. It’s stuck. They’re going to have to do an emergency section so they can pull the baby back up the birth canal. And they have to move fast in case his oxygen supply is compromised.’

‘She’s not going to like that,’ I said, shrugging out of Scarlett’s clothes and into the scrubs, which fitted me much better. ‘She’s already been complaining about the stretch marks. She’ll be really pissed off about a scar.’ I emerged and saw the nurse’s face. ‘I’m only joking. She’s not that shallow and superficial, you know.’

My memory of what happened next is like one of those Roman mosaic pavements they excavate on
Time Team
. Fragments of a picture with gaps in between whose content you can only deduce or imagine.

A group of people in green or blue scrubs all focused on the operating table. A green fabric screen placed across Scarlett’s chest so I wouldn’t see the blood. A voice with an edge of desperation saying, ‘There’s a lot of blood here and I can’t see where it’s coming from.’ Terror gripping my chest like the claws of a predatory bird. I imagined breaking the news to Joshu that his wedding day had ended here on a bloody operating table.

Then a midwife scurried across the room with a bloody bundle and disappeared into an anteroom. The next thing I heard was the thin cry of a baby. One of the gowned figures put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘It’s a boy. They’re just checking him out, don’t worry.’

‘What about Scarlett?’

It was hard to read him. All I could see were his eyes and eyebrows. ‘They’re doing their best. But we’re a good team. You need to focus on the baby now.’

And then the midwife put him in my arms, swaddled in a blue cellular blanket. His thick dark hair was plastered randomly over his forehead, his nose was squashed like a boxer’s and there were still traces of bloody mucus round his ears. But he was smiling. He was smiling and his eyes were open and they looked straight into mine and I was lost.