Baby Be Mine

creeping up the walls. It’s situated in the hills south of the medieval town’s centre and the view across the valley is spectacular, especially at sunset, which is when Barney and I pull up. He’s already dozed off. I’m glad my parents have a travel cot because I should be able to put him straight into it and pray that he stays asleep until morning. Mum, Dad and I have a lot to talk about.
    My Barney plan works – just. I take a few minutes to make sure he’s settled properly before going downstairs to the living room to discover that Dad has already unpacked most of our belongings from the car.
    ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say quietly.
    My mum comes in. ‘I didn’t know if you’d eat on the way, but I saved some dinner for you just in case.’
    ‘I’m not really hungry,’ I tell her.
    ‘Come out to the terrace,’ Dad urges. ‘You should eat something and I’ll get you a glass of wine as well. Red? White?’
    ‘I don’t know, whatever’s open. Thank you!’ I call after him.
    ‘So I’ll get you some dinner?’ Mum persists.
    I nod. ‘I guess so. Thank you,’ I add, feeling compelled to be particularly polite to my parents.
    We go outside and sit at the glass table on the stone-tiled terrace. There’s a decent-sized rectangular-shaped swimming pool in front of us and, beyond that, neatly mown grass. The property is bordered by trees – palms, pines, lilacs – which offer some privacy from the surrounding villas, but, as we’re on a slope, they don’t interfere with the view of the valley from the terrace.
    ‘How was the drive?’ Dad asks when we’re seated. My dad is of medium height and build, with greying brown hair. Just like Mum and me, he also has brown eyes. My mum is slightly taller than him when she wears heels, which isn’t very often. Her hair is a darker shade of blonde than mine. They’ve been married thirty-odd years after meeting in their early twenties. My mum used to work in a dry-cleaner’s in Guildford, where we’re from. Dad used to get his business suits done there. He worked in a bank – arranging mortgages was his speciality – until he retired a few years ago and they moved here.
    ‘Fine. Good,’ I tell him.
    ‘What’s with the car?’ he asks. ‘Bit too nice for a rental, isn’t it?’
    I swallow my food, hard. ‘Johnny bought it for me.’
    They both reel backwards and glance at each other with surprise.
    ‘It’s not a big deal,’ I tell them. ‘He insisted. He said it was like a – and I quote – “drop in the ocean”.’
    ‘Hmm,’ my mum says wryly.
    ‘Well, if he can afford it, why shouldn’t he buy my little girl a car? You are the mother of his child, after all.’ The cheeriness in my dad’s tone is forced. It’s clear he’s finding it hard to make light of the situation.
    ‘Oh, Meg . . .’ my mum says. Here we go.
    ‘I know, Mum,’ I respond. ‘I don’t blame you for being disappointed, but I’m trying to do the right thing, now.’
    She nods, tears in her eyes. I look down at my food. I have absolutely zero appetite, but I don’t want to let Mum’s cooking go to waste.
    She shakes her head disapprovingly. ‘I knew something was up that time we came to see you in Paris.’
    ‘Nothing had even happened between us then!’ I respond indignantly.
    ‘No, but I could see it, the way you were running around after him.’
    It was when we were on tour. Johnny went haywire and I had to leave my parents having dinner at the Pompidou centre to go after him.
    ‘It was my job,’ I say wearily. ‘It had nothing to do with my feelings for him.’
    ‘But, still,’ Mum says.
    I pick at my food.
    ‘How’s Christian?’ she asks.
    ‘Not good,’ I admit, looking down at the table because I can’t face her expression. ‘He’ll never forgive me.’
    ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Dad says kindly.
    ‘You’re wrong about that,’ I tell him. ‘But thanks, anyway.’
    ‘Goodness me.’ Mum sighs. ‘Goodness me.’
    ‘What?’ I ask, because this is a different tone from the ‘Oh, Meg’ I’ve been getting so used to.
    ‘Johnny Jefferson. What will Barbara say?’
    Barbara is one of my mum’s ex-pat bridge buddies.
    ‘You can’t tell her,’ I say fervently. ‘You can’t tell anyone.’
    ‘Well, we’re going to have to tell people sometime,’ Mum says, slightly put out.
    ‘Not yet. Not until it’s right. That goes for Susan and Tony, too,’ I say of my older sister and her irritating husband. ‘I don’t want