AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘What the hell am I going to do?’ she wails. ‘Peter will be nearly forty by the time it’s born. I’ll only be twenty-two. I can’t have this baby. I just can’t.’
She takes the train back to Richmond, stares out of the window and wonders how the hell she will tell him. He will not want to be tied down. By anyone. He is the dishy professor, the driver of the vintage Porsche, a few too many careful owners. He asked her to move in, yes; he has told her he loves her, yes; he has asked her to marry him twice already. Yes, yes, yes. But he has not expressed a wish for a child. He has told her he’s never before asked a woman to live with him, and while she does believe him, of course she does, it’s just that she doesn’t know absolutely that this is the truth or whether it’s the absolute truth. What is the absolute truth anyway? Most truths have something beneath: unspoken or unacknowledged or incomprehensible. Sometimes that tiny, hidden lie is only apparent or understood much later, even by the mouth that uttered it.
The truth right now is that she feels sick – not at the hormones but at the fear of what Peter will say. Maybe she should take matters into her own hands. Marcia would help her. But no, that would involve outright lying. She thinks of the pervasive, insidious dishonesty that her father inflicted on her mother. She knows first-hand how devastating that is. God knows, her mother is dealing with the toxic fallout even now.
She manages to wait until the next morning, a Sunday. She didn’t want to ruin their Saturday-night film – there is a television, as it turns out; it is in the snug, a separate small sitting room at the back of the house that they use on Saturday evenings. She decides to tell him not while they are alone in the house, but outside, where there are other people around. Why she does this hovers in some foggy, soupy place she cannot reach, or does not want to.
She waits until they’re at a table outside the veggie café under the arches of Richmond Bridge, the one that serves the best spanakopita in Surrey, according to Peter. Boats sail by, geese drift in arrowheads on the murky water, weekenders amble along the riverside. It is freezing, but she has on her new arctic explorer coat, her cashmere hat. And there are outdoor heaters.
‘Peter,’ she says. ‘I need to tell you something.’
And she tells him, wincing a little, her shoulders hunched.
The silence lasts a second, two, three, oh God. She makes herself look at his face. But instead of a grimace, there is a grin of what looks to her like pure joy. Confusion fills her. He half laughs, picks her up in his arms and sinks his face into her neck.
‘Marry me, Sam.’ The delicious scratch of stubble against her exposed skin. ‘Marry me immediately.’
A giggle escapes her. It is so nice to be wantedthis much.
He sets her down and she takes her seat, still giggling a little, her face hot.
‘You’re not furious?’ she asks.
But he has knelt in front of her, and her face grows hotter still.
‘Samantha Frayn, will you marry me?’
‘Stop it,’ she says, panicking. ‘Get up.’
He does, thank God, though not before people have turned and thrown indulgent smiles their way. He sits on his chair, apparently quite unable to wipe the grin off his face. ‘Well then? Will you?’
‘I don’t believe in marriage. As youknow.’ She is trying to keep this light, but she’s told him countless times. He’s said he understands. But here he is, putting her on the spot yet again.
‘I’m not your father,’ he says.
‘I know. But I’m only twenty-one. I’m just … I mean, I … I haven’t travelled, I haven’t seen anything, I haven’t even graduated.’
He reaches for her hands. ‘Listen. I’ll look after you, dummy. We’ll have this baby, and after that I’ll take you all around the world. I’ll make sure you don’t miss out on one single thing, trust me.’ He pushes her hands to his lips and kisses her knuckles. There are actual tears in his beautiful brown eyes. ‘I’m so happy, Sam. You’ve made me so happy. And we don’t have to get married immediately if you don’t want to. We have plenty of time.’
It is days later that she reflects on how he never once asked howshefelt about it, if she was happy, whether it was right for her. It is her life, after all, not his, that will be turned upside down, though on that perfect wintry morning by the river, she has no idea just how much.
Seven
It is her mother who is the most difficult.
‘But … but you’ve only known him five minutes.’ Her voice is sharp down the phone. ‘You were only moving in with him the other month; now you’re having his baby? Why do you have to be in such a rush, love?’
‘I’m not. It just happened. And Peter’s delighted.’
‘Peter.’
Samantha waits, but her mother says nothing more.
‘Mum,’ she says. ‘I know you’re worried, but if you met him, you’d like him, honestly. He’s very … well respected.’
Unlike my father, she doesn’t say. Doesn’t have to.
Her mother gives a great exhalation, a trailing cloud of hot steam from a train travelling all the way from God’s own county to here, the mistrusted south of England.The south: syllables spat from downturned mouths by everyone she still knows in the village.
