Baby Be Mine

of our friends?’ Johnny interjects sinisterly. ‘What about that Joseph?’
    ‘Yeah, your boyfriend could have spilled the beans,’ Dana adds with a sly grin.
    My pulse quickens. Really? No. But he hasn’t called me . . .
    No. He wouldn’t. I’m a better judge of character than that.
    Aren’t I?
    The two of them watch me, watch my reaction. My face has given away my doubt and they see this with satisfaction. I remember Charlie and wonder if she might have been to blame. Who knows?
    I look back at Johnny, his green eyes challenging mine as Dana smirks.
    ‘You make me sick,’ I whisper at him, and a flicker of something passes over his face. Dana laughs, but I ignore her. ‘We’re leaving,’ I tell him resolutely.
    ‘No, you’re not,’ he replies.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ I nod and I suddenly feel very, very calm. ‘Yes, we are. And until you sort yourself out and get rid of your fucked-up—’
    ‘Language,’ Dana butts in merrily.
    ‘. . . druggie girlfriend,’ I continue, while she sucks the air in through her teeth but pretends not to care, ‘we’ll have nothing more to do with you.’
    ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Johnny reiterates, but his conviction is waning.
    I raise my eyebrows at him and walk out of the office.
    I head upstairs to my room, where Bess is waiting with Barney.
    ‘Your phone has been beeping,’ she says, handing me my handbag, which she helpfully carried up along with my son.
    I take it from her and pull out my phone. Eleven missed calls, mainly from Mum and Dad, and – oh, hell – there are a couple from Susan.
    I never did tell her . . .
    Christian. I never told him, either.
    I cover my mouth with my hand. ‘Can you entertain Barney in his room?’ I ask Bess, tears welling up in my eyes.
    ‘Of course,’ she replies with concern.
    ‘Thank you,’ I call after her. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you here.’
    ‘It’ll be okay,’ she tells me.
    But she’s wrong. It will never be just okay from now on. Okay is not a word that can be used to describe our lives anymore. Nor is normal, or average, or run-of-the-mill. From now on, our lives will be – and will forevermore be – extraordinary. I’m no longer an ordinary girl and Barney is no longer an ordinary boy.
    I get a flashback to being with Johnny in France – him being there for me when it all came crashing down – and for a moment I feel tender towards him. But then my heart reverts to steel. Steel which turns molten when I remember why I asked Bess to leave.
    Christian.
    I dial his number. And for the first time since he left me, he answers.
    ‘Christian,’ I whisper.
    Silence.
    ‘Christian?’
    ‘What?’ he asks quietly.
    ‘You’ve seen the news?’
    ‘Bit hard to miss.’
    ‘I’m so sorry.’
    He snorts. ‘Sorry for what, exactly? Because the list is growing longer, Meg. I’m finding it hard to keep tabs on it.’
    He sounds so bitter and twisted. So unlike the man I once loved. Still love. ‘My family send you their regards,’ he says nastily and I feel even more wretched than I already did.
    I swallow. ‘What did Vanessa and Anton have?’
    ‘A boy,’ he replies; then adds, his voice dripping with sarcasm: ‘At last our family has a little boy we can call our own.’
    ‘Please . . .’ I beg and then I’m on a roll. ‘I tried calling you before. I’ve tried you time and time again. I wanted to tell you we were coming here. He wanted to get to know Barney – it’s not like they’ve made it out to be in the papers . . . That party on Saturday night, that was Dana’s doing. I was sick about it. We took Barney to a hotel on Sunday. I’ve told Johnny we’re leaving. We can’t stay here with him if he’s going to put Barney at risk like this.’
    He says nothing and, for a moment, I wonder if he’s even there at all.
    ‘Christian?’ I ask.
    ‘I’m here.’
    Has his tone softened? I hear him swallow.
    ‘Do you know what?’ His volume is low.
    ‘What?’ I ask hopefully.
    ‘It would be easier if you were dead.’
    He hangs up on me.
    I lie on the bed and sob my heart out for what feels like a long time. I have no idea that Johnny has entered the room until he’s standing right over me.
    ‘What the hell are you doing, walking in like that? Don’t you knock?’
    ‘I don’t have to knock in my own house,’ he says nonchalantly.
    ‘I hate you!’ I hurl the phone at him. Call it an ironic ode to Christian, who did the same thing to me not that long