Lifesaving for Beginners

That sharp, bitter taste and the way I have to squash my finger into the handle of the cup. If I had my mother’s fingers, I could drink espressos to a band playing.
    Minnie nods and puts her handbag back on the floor. In my head, I hear the conversation she will have with Maurice, later: ‘. . . letting herself go . . . drinking at lunchtime . . . not touching her dinner . . . yes, it wasn’t bad actually. I had the couscous with the clams and jus de blahblahblah . . .’ I can hear it all as clearly as if Minnie and Maurice were standing on either side of me, talking over my head. Couples always talk about their single friends. I overhear them, when I’m sitting in a restaurant, or a café.
    We drink the espressos. Minnie stands up, puts her time-ometer into her bag and slips on her coat, which is actually a cape, on closer inspection. Everyone in the restaurant gazes at her as she does this, some with open hostility and some with hopeless adoration. It’s always been the same where Minnie is concerned.
    Minnie says, ‘I’ll call you.’
    I nod.
    Minnie bites her lip and shakes her head, like she’s having an argument with herself. ‘I feel like a heel, abandoning you like this.’
    This is unusual territory for Minnie. I must look really miserable. I try to maintain the expression. ‘Does this mean you’ll come to Lincoln’s with me and get pissed?’ I say, taking advantage.
    ‘No.’ But she leans across the table and kisses me – briefly – on my cheek. Her lips are warm from the espresso.
    She straightens and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
    She says, ‘Are you going to be OK?’
    I say, ‘Yes.’
    Minnie nods but she’s looking at me funny. She reminds me of her mother when she looks at me like that. Like her mother looked at me afterwards. Back when I was fifteen. All worry and concern. I don’t like it.
    She looks away but she doesn’t move. Instead, she stands there. A bit shifty.
    I say, ‘What?’
    Minnie takes a breath, the way people do when they’re gearing up to say something that may be like a lead balloon, in terms of the way it’ll go down.
    I say, ‘What?’ again. I’m worried now. I’m thinking the worst. I’m thinking tumours. Big, malignant ones.
    ‘I’m pregnant.’
    ‘Wow.’
    ‘I know, I know. I said I’d never have one and I’m too old and we’re too set in our ways and there’d be no more hopping to Bilbao to visit the Guggenheim at a moment’s notice. But that doesn’t mean we’ll never be able to go again. Besides, you can bring buggies into the Guggenheim. I Googled it.’
    I begin to say something that goes like, ‘Minnie . . . I think that’s . . .’
    ‘You don’t have to pretend to be delighted or anything. I know how you feel about babies.’
    Sometimes I hate her. I hate the way she knows everything about me.
    ‘Of course I’m delighted. That’s fantastic news.’ And it is. Fantastic news. I just wish it wasn’t Minnie’s fantastic news. I hate myself for thinking this thought but there it is. It’s done now. Stuck in my head like a piece of spinach gripped by front teeth. Everything changed when she met Maurice. Changed a little more when they moved into their monstrosity in Ballsbridge. Then the wedding. Then the foodie holidays. And now this. I know this is the way things are supposed to go. It’s just . . . it feels like she’s slipping away from me. Like I’m being left behind.
    ‘How many weeks are you?’
    ‘Only eight so don’t say a word to anyone. Maurice is superstitious about not telling anyone till I’m twelve weeks. It took us a while. To conceive, I mean.’
    ‘You never said you were trying.’
    ‘We’ve been trying for a few months now. I didn’t want to tell anyone in case nothing came of it.’
    I want to say, ‘I’m not anyone,’ but I don’t say that.
    ‘So we just kept ourselves busy, having sex and eating anchovies.’
    ‘Anchovies?’
    Minnie explains about anchovies then. About how they’re a superfood when it comes to sperm speed and agility.
    I say, ‘How are you feeling?’
    ‘Puking around the clock and gorging myself in between the puking.’
    ‘You don’t look sick.’ My tone seems accusatory so I add, ‘You look great’ in a more ordinary voice.
    Minnie beams then and I recoil a little. It’s the shock. She’s never beamed before. ‘I feel great. It’s the weirdest thing.’
    I say, ‘You’ll make a great mother.’
    Minnie rummages in her handbag for her