Baby Be Mine

There’s a picture of them coming out of a club in the early hours of the morning a few weeks ago. She has long, dark hair and is wearing a lot of make-up: black eyeliner around her eyes, heavy metallic black eye shadow and red lipstick. Her skin is pale, considering she lives in LA, and Johnny towers above her so she must be petite. She’s beautiful, in a rock-chick kind of way. She suits him, I realise, and jealousy surges through me. I angrily rub away my tears and read on.
    She’s an up-and-coming singer songwriter who, according to the music press, is the Next Big Thing. She’s twenty-five, eight years younger than Johnny and a year younger than me. They haven’t been apart since they met – there have been no rumours of Johnny messing around. ‘Could she finally be The One?’ one journalist asks. ‘They’re a bad influence on each other. It will all end in tears,’ another states.
    They got that right.
    I’m done. I’ve had enough. I push the laptop lid down and put the machine back on the side-table before wearily getting to my feet.
    That’s the reason why I don’t do this very often.

 
  Chapter 5  
    The next morning, Barney rouses me from a deep sleep. I lie there in bed, as exhaustion weighs down every part of my body. I would give anything to be able to stay here all day, but, after a while, his happy babbling turns into whining and I drag myself from bed and stumble through to him.
    ‘Good morning.’ I try to sound bright and breezy.
    His face breaks into a toothy grin and all my bad feelings instantly evaporate. He’s the most important person in my life. I can’t fall back into that black hole. I lift him up onto the baby-change station in his room and proceed to change his nappy.
    Last night seems surreal. I feel strangely detached about the whole thing now. Johnny’s just another idiotic celebrity to end up in hospital after a drug overdose. Of course I don’t still love him.
    Weight lifts from my stomach. I smile down at Barney – a genuine smile.
    ‘Shall we go up into the village and get some croissants for breakfast?’ I don’t expect him to answer, but I like talking to him in any case.
    I throw on some shorts and a T-shirt and quickly get Barney dressed before buckling him into his buggy and bumping him down the stone steps to the front gate. Cucugnan is a beautiful, medieval village situated on a hill. Said hill is small in comparison to the mountains that encircle it, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it as I manoeuvre the buggy up the steep road towards the village centre. We pass the town hall and post office on the left, and a bar and a couple of shops on the right and then the road starts to wind as we make our way up to the seventeenth-century windmill at the top of the hill. Sometimes there’s a break between the buildings and I can see the mountains beyond. I use these viewpoints as an excuse to catch my breath and let the burning sensation in my thighs die down. No wonder Christian was able to comment on my figure the other day – these hills are hardcore.
    Long before we reach our destination we can hear the machinery whirring and chugging as it grinds the flour. The bakery is located right underneath the old windmill and it looks like something out of Elle Deco with its wooden beams and cupboards painted in neutral tones. Classy blackboards detail current specials, and cakes, biscuits, bread and almond meringues are laid out on display tables at the entrance. I go inside to order, then return to the bright sunlight with our purchase. There are bench tables outside, but instead of sitting at one we head past the windmill and around the corner to the rocks at the very top of the hill. I have to park the buggy with the brake on and carry Barney and our breakfast the rest of the way. I pause for a moment when I realise there’s a blonde girl sitting on the dry yellow grass in the distance. She has her back to us and is facing the surrounding mountains. It dawns on me that she’s doing yoga.
    I reluctantly drag my eyes away and sit on a rock, nursing Barney on my lap. The morning sun is casting a glow over the mountains and down below there’s a patchwork of lime-green vineyards and the small village cemetery. Opening the paper bag from the bakery, I pull out a biscuit – I forgot they do croissants only on weekends – and hand Barney a small piece. We can have some proper breakfast when we get back home.
    This area is full of crumbly old castles.