Baby Be Mine

he greets his oldest friend.
    I face the kitchen sink, clutching the edge of the countertop. My hands are shaking.
    Snap out of it, Meg. Snap out of it.
    I force myself to reach for a glass, with the intention of washing it, but I have to rest my hand back on the countertop. I feel too weak to move. I need to sit down, but I daren’t move my feet.
    I haven’t seen him for almost two years and he’s treating me like a stranger. No, worse: he’s treating me like an enemy.
    I want to get away from here.
    No. I want to stay. I want to see him again.
    I hear footsteps behind me and I spin around, expecting it to be Johnny, but it’s Christian.
    ‘Are you alright?’ he asks, concerned.
    ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I reply quickly, blood rushing into my face. ‘How are you?’
    ‘I’m okay,’ he says slowly. ‘Would you mind making Johnny a cup of coffee?’
    ‘Of course, yes.’ Like a woman possessed, I clatter a cup out of the cupboard and switch on the coffee machine.
    ‘Are you sure you don’t want a hand out here?’ Christian indicates the mess in the kitchen. The plates may be in the dishwasher, but there are still loads of glasses to wash by hand, not to mention serving bowls and trays.
    ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I reply, dementedly trying to shake a coffee capsule out of the large jar beside the Nespresso machine.
    ‘Why don’t we do the rest in the morning?’ Christian suggests. ‘I’ll help you. Come into the living room. You haven’t seen Johnny for ages.’
    ‘No, I’m fine,’ I say again, continuing to shake the jar like a nutcase until I manage to retrieve one of the extra-strong blends.
    ‘Okay. Only if you’re su—’
    ‘I’m sure,’ I cut him off. ‘I’ll bring his coffee through in a minute.’
    He leaves, but my pace doesn’t slow. I lift up the lever and insert the capsule, then push it back down again and press the green button. Black coffee begins to fill the cup. Black, no sugar. I remember.
    There’s pressure against my head. I feel like I’m in a vice.
    I take the cup with my shaking fingers and, on autopilot, enter the living room. Johnny is relaxing in an armchair in the far corner. He’s taken off his coat and is wearing skinny black jeans and a faded black T-shirt with a yellow spark plug on the front. It looks vintage and is tight against his torso. He’s leaning back, one foot resting on the opposite knee, but he sits up as I approach. His fingers touch mine as I try to relinquish the cup. I almost drop it.
    ‘Whoa,’ he says.
    ‘Sorry,’ I murmur, turning around and going back through to the kitchen.
    ‘Do you need some help out there?’ Joel calls after me.
    ‘No, it’s okay,’ I call back.
    My fingers are burning. For a moment I put it down to the heat of the coffee cup, but then I realise Johnny’s touch is to blame.
    I stand in front of the sink for at least five minutes before I feel able to get on with the washing-up. After a short while, Christian returns.
    ‘Come and sit down,’ he urges.
    ‘No, no, it’s okay. I’d rather get it done.’
    ‘Meg,’ he says firmly. ‘I insist.’ He switches on the kettle. ‘I’ll make you a cuppa. It’ll be the first time I’ve been allowed to make one in this kitchen in thirty-three years.’
    We glance at each other and both our features soften. He takes my hands and looks at me directly.
    ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I know this is hard for you.’
    ‘It can’t be easy for you, either,’ I reply. Whoever wants to be in the same room as their girlfriend and their girlfriend’s ex? Chuck in the fact that the ex is the person-in-question’s best mate and it’s even higher on one’s list of things to avoid.
    Christian shrugs. ‘We were going to have to do this sometime. He’s my oldest friend and you’re my girlfriend, the mother of my child. On that subject, I want him to meet Barney one day, too. I think enough water has passed under the bridge . . .’
    The vice cranks up its pressure on my head. The kettle boils, thankfully distracting him from the look of pain on my face.
    Joel makes room for me on the sofa so I sit between him and Christian. My legs are bare; I’m wearing a black dress and I took my heels off ages ago. Detached from reality, I feel strangely relieved that I painted my toenails before we left France. I stare down at my mug. It’s bright yellow and there’s a small chip on the rim. It’s one of the old, non-matching mugs that have been in Christian’s