As if we could fucking toast to anything else! This is a big one, Lloydie, this is really fucking big.’ She was laying it on so thickly with the expletives that I wondered if she was building up to one of her sudden rages. But she was grinning, excited.
Melissa is pregnant.
Having spawned itself in my stomach, the truth travelled onion-flavoured like an anaesthetic up my spine:
Lloyd is having his inevitable late child
. The stomach-voice reminded me how inevitable it was: he was an attractive man, youngwomen found him attractive, young women often wanted to have babies. We’d never see him alone now. Melissa would be always there — she wouldn’t let him get away with as much as the ex-wife, the woman who had had his sons. It was as if Melissa was here now, suddenly, curled up against him like a pale, crop-haired cat, her green eyes creased with contentment in her silent, unnerving Madonna face.
‘Oh!’ Fran took a sudden, scouring breath as she lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve just realised! Bridgie doesn’t know! She doesn’t fucking know!’ She clamped a heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘Or does she? Have you told her yet, Lloydie?’
Lloyd, meeting my eyes, seemed to suffer a sudden bolt of empathy. It was as if he only just realised, in that moment, what this news would do to me. A hand shot out, across the table, surreptitiously among the cutlery. I thought he meant to lay it over mine — I could feel the dry warmth of its palm already — but he merely tapped me twice with his index finger, above my knuckles, before withdrawing. He wasn’t going to get involved with my pain.
Lloydie, I thought you were my mate.
‘Well, go on, don’t piss about!’ shouted Fran.
‘I’m going to be a father again,’ Lloyd said quietly. ‘Due in March.’
‘Isn’t it fucking wonderful?’ Fran scarcely waited for him to finish. She held her glass at the full extent of her arm above her head. ‘To Lloydie, Melissa and the next Little Fucking Lloydie! Got any names yet?’
‘When did you find out?’ I asked, in an undertone I have perfected for use around Fran.
‘This morning. I went up the road and bought one of those test-kit things. Six weeks gone, we think.’
Fran was still talking. ‘Glue would be a good name, don’t you think? Or Gluette if it’s a girl. Glue for the old relationship.’
‘Pardon?’ said Lloyd sharply, picking up the menu, giving it a crack. Fran gave me a bruising nudge in the ribs.
‘Well, congratulations!’ I found it in me at last — the heart to say it. And mean it. ‘Melissa must be over the moon.’
‘We both are,’ Lloyd said primly.
‘Is it a surprise? For you, I mean … did you plan … or did it just …’ Too late I remembered — though how I could I have forgotten? — how much Lloyd hated those kind of questions.
‘Let’s order.’
He’s regretting it, regretting taking us out to dinner. We’re a pair of old snakes.
Fran, realising she’d overstepped Lloyd’s considerable bounds of decency, had her lips firmly pursed together and was studying the menu.
‘Mixed entrée? Tod man pla and spring rolls and money bags and all that?’ she suggested soothingly. Poor Lloyd, I could hear her thinking, Bridget could at least pretend to be pleased for him.
‘Good idea,’ said Lloyd as the waiter loomed.
We talked about other things then. Through two and a half bottles of wine, the entrée and the main course — all of which were delicious — we talked about Fran’s difficult flatmate, whether or not Fran and I should get dogs, and how long it was since Fran had last gone out to dinner. We talked about Lloyd’s stressful job, his house renovations, a holiday he and Melissa had planned. Then, as he spooned up the last fiery morsels of Crying Tiger and Waterfall Beef, more relaxed now with two-thirds of a bottle of wine inside him, he asked, ‘And how about you, Bridgie? How’s your garden?’
I’m not talking about my garden, not in front of Fran.
Melissa is pregnant.
Having spawned itself in my stomach, the truth travelled onion-flavoured like an anaesthetic up my spine:
Lloyd is having his inevitable late child
. The stomach-voice reminded me how inevitable it was: he was an attractive man, youngwomen found him attractive, young women often wanted to have babies. We’d never see him alone now. Melissa would be always there — she wouldn’t let him get away with as much as the ex-wife, the woman who had had his sons. It was as if Melissa was here now, suddenly, curled up against him like a pale, crop-haired cat, her green eyes creased with contentment in her silent, unnerving Madonna face.
‘Oh!’ Fran took a sudden, scouring breath as she lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve just realised! Bridgie doesn’t know! She doesn’t fucking know!’ She clamped a heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘Or does she? Have you told her yet, Lloydie?’
Lloyd, meeting my eyes, seemed to suffer a sudden bolt of empathy. It was as if he only just realised, in that moment, what this news would do to me. A hand shot out, across the table, surreptitiously among the cutlery. I thought he meant to lay it over mine — I could feel the dry warmth of its palm already — but he merely tapped me twice with his index finger, above my knuckles, before withdrawing. He wasn’t going to get involved with my pain.
Lloydie, I thought you were my mate.
‘Well, go on, don’t piss about!’ shouted Fran.
‘I’m going to be a father again,’ Lloyd said quietly. ‘Due in March.’
‘Isn’t it fucking wonderful?’ Fran scarcely waited for him to finish. She held her glass at the full extent of her arm above her head. ‘To Lloydie, Melissa and the next Little Fucking Lloydie! Got any names yet?’
‘When did you find out?’ I asked, in an undertone I have perfected for use around Fran.
‘This morning. I went up the road and bought one of those test-kit things. Six weeks gone, we think.’
Fran was still talking. ‘Glue would be a good name, don’t you think? Or Gluette if it’s a girl. Glue for the old relationship.’
‘Pardon?’ said Lloyd sharply, picking up the menu, giving it a crack. Fran gave me a bruising nudge in the ribs.
‘Well, congratulations!’ I found it in me at last — the heart to say it. And mean it. ‘Melissa must be over the moon.’
‘We both are,’ Lloyd said primly.
‘Is it a surprise? For you, I mean … did you plan … or did it just …’ Too late I remembered — though how I could I have forgotten? — how much Lloyd hated those kind of questions.
‘Let’s order.’
He’s regretting it, regretting taking us out to dinner. We’re a pair of old snakes.
Fran, realising she’d overstepped Lloyd’s considerable bounds of decency, had her lips firmly pursed together and was studying the menu.
‘Mixed entrée? Tod man pla and spring rolls and money bags and all that?’ she suggested soothingly. Poor Lloyd, I could hear her thinking, Bridget could at least pretend to be pleased for him.
‘Good idea,’ said Lloyd as the waiter loomed.
We talked about other things then. Through two and a half bottles of wine, the entrée and the main course — all of which were delicious — we talked about Fran’s difficult flatmate, whether or not Fran and I should get dogs, and how long it was since Fran had last gone out to dinner. We talked about Lloyd’s stressful job, his house renovations, a holiday he and Melissa had planned. Then, as he spooned up the last fiery morsels of Crying Tiger and Waterfall Beef, more relaxed now with two-thirds of a bottle of wine inside him, he asked, ‘And how about you, Bridgie? How’s your garden?’
I’m not talking about my garden, not in front of Fran.
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