Baby Be Mine

sight. I wish he’d slow down. What if he crashes and kills Barney? Suddenly I’m overcome with panic. I want to catch them up, even though I feel dizzy. I should pull over, but what if he kills himself and my son with him? Up ahead I see Christian’s rental car and I realise he’s slowed down, waiting for me. I take several deep breaths and try to compose myself, but it takes me a good ten minutes before I return to normal. Finally we hit the motorway and I relax.
    When am I going to call Johnny?
    Hang on, how am I going to call Johnny?
    That second thought hasn’t even occurred to me until now. I doubt Johnny has the same mobile number that he had when I worked for him – he lost his phone twice during that time and I assume that’s fairly standard behaviour. Everyone used to go through his PA, but I don’t fancy calling her. What was her name? Lena, that’s it. How would I convince Lena that my message is one she should definitely pass on? I wonder if she even knows who I am. ‘Meg Stiles. I used to work for Johnny.’ The ghost of another PA before her. Again I wonder if he’s come onto her, too, just like he did with Paola, his PA before me. Envy jabs at me and I’m revolted by myself. How can I feel envy after everything I’ve been through, after everything I’m putting Christian through?
    Well, he won’t have shagged her if she’s still working there. I doubt it, anyway.
    Christian will have his private number. But I can’t see that going down too well.
    My phone beeps and I wonder if it’s Christian trying to tell me something. I keep my eyes on the road and rummage around in my handbag until I find it. I give the screen a quick glance to see if it’s from Christian, but there’s no caller ID – only a telephone number. I return my attention to the road but, moments later, curiosity gets the better of me and I slow down and take a look at the message.
    Have you told him yet?
    Johnny? My heart skips a beat. It must be from him. That’s so weird. So weird. I was only just thinking of him.
    The weirdness continues to plague me as we drive on. What should I say? I can’t text and drive. I mean, I can, but I shouldn’t. Anyway, he can wait.
    What should I say? What should I say?
    ‘Yes’?
    No, that won’t do. I’ll have to explain, to stop him from contacting me again. Something along the lines of: ‘Yes. It’s been awful. Please give us more time to adjust. I’ll text you soon.’
    That sounds about right, but like I said, he’ll have to wait.
    I try to keep my resolve, but the urge to text him back keeps itch, itch, itching at me until I can hardly keep from scratching it. I’m about to give in when Christian pulls into a petrol station. We’re near the airport so he needs to refuel. Immensely relieved, I drive into a parking space and snatch up my phone. I type out the message and throw the phone back into my handbag.
    Ping!
    Another message.
    Christian is still filling the car. I pick up my phone and read it:
    How soon?
    Oh, for pity’s sake. Leave us alone! No, I won’t reply. I won’t. Bugger it.
    I don’t know, Johnny. Have some respect!
    My phone starts to ring.
    ‘What?’ I snap.
    ‘Are you taking the fucking piss?’ Johnny asks down the line.
    ‘I can’t talk now,’ I reply crossly. ‘You’re going to have to wait!’
    ‘I’ve waited long enough, thank you very much. Two fucking years I’ve waited.’
    ‘Well, then, what’s another week?’ I say sarcastically.
    ‘A week,’ he replies smugly. ‘A week it is, then.’
    He hangs up on me. The bastard hangs up on me. Bloody hell.
    I glance up to see Christian getting back in the car, having already paid for his fuel. I start up the engine and follow him out.
    That evening, Christian doesn’t offer to help with any part of Barney’s bedtime routine. He sits in front of the telly watching Top Gear so I get on with Barney’s bath, milk, story and bed. Afterwards I walk across the hall with my head down, scratching my elbow absent-mindedly as I wonder if Christian will talk to me tonight. I reach the living room and glance first at the television and then at my boyfriend, and then I stop in my tracks when I see the look on his face. He has my phone in his hand and is glaring at me accusingly.
    ‘What the fuck is this about?’ He holds up the phone.
    ‘I was going to tell you,’ I say hurriedly.
    ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
    ‘I was!’ My voice rises. ‘I was!’
    ‘What were you going to tell