The Dare, page 9
Someone switches on a couple of stationary lights dotted about the place, but it’s not as pretty as the mirror ball. Nowhere near. I know Alice did it for me, because she doesn’t want me to have a seizure, but I wish she hadn’t. I’d rather have gone home. But then she’d have had to leave, too. She’s loyal like that. I’d have felt guilty then. Even guiltier than I do now, for ruining the light show for everyone else.
When I’m standing in the queue to buy a drink – SevenUp for Alice and apple juice for me – the girl in front of me is complaining to her friend about not having the mirror ball. I don’t know for sure whether she’s saying it because she knows I’m right behind her and can hear every word, but I’m pretty sure she is. I want to grab her stupid high ponytail and jerk her head right back and tell her not to be such a selfish cow, but I just stand there, waiting my turn, pretending I can’t hear. Swaying along to Nelly Furtado.
Sally Peters and Heather Langton are talking to Alice when I get back with the drinks.
‘Hi, Lizzie. I love your new trousers,’ Sally says. I know she’s only being nice because they look awful – Catherine’s left me in no doubt about that – but at least she isn’t being sarcastic. She isn’t saying it how Melissa or Bethany would say it. How they probably will say it at some point during the evening.
A couple of times, I notice Dave Farley glance over in our direction. I think he’s looking at Alice. I mean, it’s hard to tell exactly who he’s looking at in this dim light, but it definitely won’t be me, and it certainly won’t be Heather. Later, though, when Snow Patrol comes on – I never remember the names of the tracks, but it’s that lovely slow one – he crosses the dance floor and heads straight for me. Straight for me.
Oh. My. God. He’s going to ask me to dance. He’s smiling at me. Not at Alice or Sally. Not at Melissa or Bethany or any of the others, but at me. I haven’t made a mistake this time. My mouth goes completely dry. It’s really happening. In front of everyone. I try to look cool and unbothered, but I’m so gobsmacked and happy I can’t stop my mouth from spreading into a smile. This is it. He’s almost here and everyone’s looking. Alice’s mouth has opened slightly. She can’t believe it either. Everyone’s going to see Dave Farley ask me to dance.
But then he swerves away from me at the very last second and holds his hand out to Alice instead. Oh no. My whole body freezes in embarrassment and my stupid smile is fixed on my face like someone’s drawn it on. This is awful. This is the worst thing that could have happened.
Somehow or other, I manage to keep my head high, to make it seem like I’m not in the least bit bothered, that I wasn’t actually expecting him to ask me at all. I watch Alice out of the corner of my eye. She won’t dance with him. I know she won’t. She’ll want to, but she won’t. Not after what he’s just done. We’re best friends. We stick up for each other. She’ll say no and then he’ll be the one who’s humiliated. He’ll have to walk back across the dance floor all on his own, to the jeering laughter of his mates. No slow dance for you, Dave FuckFace Farley.
Except Alice doesn’t shake her head and brush him off. She hands her little clutch bag to Heather Langton and follows him on to the dance floor. I shuffle closer to Sally and Heather, cheeks burning, and pretend to be interested in their conversation, pretend not to care about what’s just happened.
I can’t believe Alice is dancing with him. How could she?
Later, when we’re on the way home and it’s just the two of us, I tell Alice exactly what I think of her.
‘How could you?’ I shout. ‘How could you dance with him after what he did to me? Don’t you care about my feelings at all?’
‘Of course I care about your feelings. But … but God, Lizzie! You know how much I fancy Dave. And anyway, I don’t think he did it on purpose. I think maybe he was going to ask you to dance and then he changed his mind at the last minute. Maybe he was worried you’d say no and embarrass him.’
‘Embarrass him? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? You know exactly what he did and you still danced with him, knowing how I’d be feeling. You’re so fucking selfish, Alice Dawson. I hate you!’
I turn on my heels and storm off in the other direction. ‘In fact,’ I shout back at the top of my voice, ‘I wish you were dead!’
24
Now
Ross texts just as I’m ladling some soup into a bowl. I’m not really hungry but I have to eat something. All I’ve had today is a tiny square of toast and a banana.
‘With Dad now. He’s lost so much weight I barely recognize him. I’ll say one thing for him tho – he’s a fighter. Xxx’
He’s sent a photo, too. A selfie of the two of them. He’s right. His dad looks really ill.
Before I have a chance to reply, another one comes through. ‘You were right. Maybe you should have come too. Next time, yes? Love you loads. Xxx’
Next time. If his dad lasts, that is.
I text him straight back. ‘I’m always right. You should know that by now! Love you too. Xxx’
I dunk a piece of bread into my soup and force it down, relieved that I’m not sitting in a nursing home in Aberdeen feeling as queasy as this. According to the pregnancy websites I’ve been poring over, the nausea can last for twelve to fifteen weeks. For some poor women it continues for the entire pregnancy.
I’d love to phone Mum and ask her what it was like for her when she was carrying me, but then I’d have to tell her I’m pregnant and Ross and I have decided to wait till I’m at least twelve weeks before we break the news. I don’t want them worrying. And they will. Of course they will. It’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done.
Eventually, I give up and tip the soup down the sink. I wander into the living room and put the TV on, but there’s nothing worth watching. I turn it off again and go back into the hall. The sunlight makes the stained glass in the front door cast colourful patterns on the wall, but all I can see is the red-wine stain. Ross has had another go at trying to remove it with bleach and water and it’s definitely faded. But the whole wall will have to be repainted. If I weren’t feeling so bad, I’d go and buy some paint right now. Get it done as soon as possible. At least then I wouldn’t have to look at it every day. Wouldn’t have to be reminded of that awful moment when I first saw Catherine Dawson in my house, saw Ross helping her remove her coat, chatting away to her.
I wander into the study and sit in front of Ross’s Mac. I wonder if he’s been looking for more information on Alice’s death. He’s bound to be curious. I would be, if the tables were turned.
I click on the Safari icon and check the latest items on his browsing history. Oh. He’s been looking at reports on the Epilepsy Research website, specifically ones that focus on pregnancy and childbirth. My breath catches at the back of my throat and any resentment I’ve been harbouring for him saying thank you to Catherine for the flowers disappears. He might be a GP, but he’s never been a dad-in-waiting before. He needs reassurance just as much as I do.
Suddenly, the urge to talk to Mum is overwhelming. I don’t care what we decided. She’s my mother and I need to speak to her.
‘Lizzie, I can’t believe you didn’t tell us straightaway.’
‘I wanted to, believe me. But we thought it best to wait until …’
‘You’d decided what to do.’
‘What do you mean? Mum, surely you don’t think we’d …’
They’ve put me on loudspeaker again. Dad’s saying something in the background, but I can’t make it out.
‘Sorry, darling, I shouldn’t finish your sentences. Bad habit of mine.’
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I can’t believe she’d even think such a thing. She of all people. ‘Mum, we never even considered …’
‘Of course not, darling, I didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t even know why I said it. It’s wonderful news. Here, your dad wants a word.’
‘Congratulations, Pumpkin. You must be thrilled.’
I can’t help hearing a thread of anxiety run through his upbeat words, or maybe it’s just a projection of my own. ‘We are. It was a real surprise.’
‘These things often are …’
Mum grabs the phone again. ‘What does your doctor say? Will you have to come off your AEDs?’
‘I’m fine, Mum. You mustn’t worry.’
‘It’s just that they’ve been working so well for you.’
Why does she always have to state the obvious? Dad’s talking in the background again, only now I can hear every word. ‘Sue, don’t start quizzing her on all that. I’m sure Ross is keeping an eye on things. He is a GP, after all.’
Mum’s laugh comes trilling down the line. I’m not fooled by it for one second. She’s frightened for me. All the excitement I wanted to share with her fizzles out in my throat. I should never have told them over the phone. It was a stupid idea. Stupid. What was I thinking?
Because it’s not just her worrying about my epilepsy, it’s all the baggage surrounding her own experience of being pregnant. She almost miscarried when she was carrying me. Tripped over a child who darted in front of her on the street and had to be on bed rest for weeks on end. It’s a miracle I was born at all. No wonder she’s anxious.
I take a deep breath. I was going to bite the bullet and tell them about Catherine Dawson as well, but they’re already freaking out over the pregnancy. I need to let them deal with that first before throwing them another curve ball.
‘You are pleased for me, aren’t you, Mum?’
‘Of course I’m pleased. I’m delighted. We both are, aren’t we, Nigel? When are you coming to stay for a weekend? We can’t wait to see you.’
‘Soon. I promise. It’s just that Ross is always so tired at the weekends. He works such long hours.’
‘I suppose you’ll be bringing the wedding forward now.’
‘Erm, I don’t think so.’
There’s a noticeable pause. ‘But surely if you’re going to have a baby …’
I press my lips together. I might have known she’d bring this up. Ever since Ross and I got engaged, she’s been asking us about our plans. The thing is, having a baby makes it even more likely we’ll hold off for longer. I don’t want to walk down the aisle with a big belly sticking out the front of my dress. How’s that going to look in the photos?
Dad says something in the background and Mum says, ‘Okay, okay.’
‘I’m being told to stop interfering,’ she says.
Dad always knows when to step in.
After we’ve said goodbye, my mind keeps playing back the early part of our conversation. I imagine them in their sitting room, analysing the risks. Or rather, Mum will be analysing the risks and Dad will be telling her not to, but doing it all the same.
Is Ross worrying, too? He’s made a good show of reassuring me so far, but is it all just a ploy to keep me calm? I cast my mind back to when I first told him, that fleeting expression of panic on his face. Had a termination crossed his mind, too? Should it have crossed mine?
If ever I needed one of my girlfriends to confide in, it’s now. But the truth is, ever since I met Ross I’ve been drifting apart from them, not making an effort to see them. I shouldn’t have let things slide, but that’s exactly what I have done.
Catherine’s card flashes into my mind. I remember the worry lines on her forehead when she asked if we could call a truce, the way she clasped my hand, could barely bring herself to let it go. There were tears in her eyes. Tears in mine. She’s a nurse practitioner. She must have loads of experience with pregnant women. She’ll know something about epilepsy, too. But no, it’s unthinkable. Reaching some kind of understanding about the past is one thing. Becoming friends is quite another.
An odd sensation washes through me. A sense that something inside my head has shifted, almost as if I’m revisiting a familiar old memory. My knees buckle. Oh God, I know what this is.
25
A slab of light bathes my right cheek. I squint and try to turn my head, but the effort involved is too much. There’s an abrasive sensation on the left side of my face. I try to lift my head but only manage to raise it a few inches. I’m lying on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. I clamber on to my knees and touch my left cheek. It’s sore from where it’s been pressed on to the carpet.
Tears come then, coursing silently, hotly, down my cheeks.
It’s happened again. After all this time.
I heave myself up on to the sofa and slump back against the cushions. Somewhere, a long way away, a phone rings. Why doesn’t anybody answer it? I force my eyelids open. The slab of light has now gone. The room is chilly. I ought to get up and go to the toilet, put a jumper on. If only I could swing my legs over the edge of the sofa, but they’re blocks of lead.
A wave of nausea surges up to my chest. I clamp my hand over my mouth and curl up on my side in a tight little ball till an overwhelming tiredness swallows me up and drags me back down into darkness.
‘Lizzie?’ Ross’s voice wakes me. ‘Lizzie, how long have you been lying here?’
I try to speak, but my mouth isn’t working.
‘Shit. You must have had a seizure,’ he says. His voice sounds as if it’s coming from a great distance, but he’s right here beside me. I can feel his warm hands on my arms, my face. ‘I’m going to go and get a blanket. You’re really cold.’
A jolt of panic courses through me as I remember. ‘The baby!’
Ross kisses my forehead. ‘The baby will be fine.’
But when he returns with the blanket, I can see he’s as scared as I am, though he’s trying his best to hide it.
He tucks the blanket around me, then puts one hand on my forehead and takes my pulse with the other. It’s okay, darling. You know this sleepiness is normal after seizures. And you don’t appear to have injured yourself. Even so, I’m going to take you straight to A & E. Just to be on the safe side.’
I struggle to sit up, but the effort involved is too much and I flop back down again. Ross perches on the edge of the sofa and strokes my forehead.
‘Did you throw up this morning?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
He sighs, heavily. ‘I could kick myself for not anticipating this. I think what’s been happening is that your body hasn’t been fully absorbing your medication.’
He kisses the tip of my nose. ‘I’m going to carry you out to the car, okay?’
‘Can’t I just go to my doctor’s in the morning? We’ll be hanging around for ages and you’ve got to be at work tomorrow.’
He scoops me up in his arms. ‘This is important, Lizzie,’ he says. ‘Right now, you’re the only patient in the world I care about.’
I baulk at the word ‘patient’, but I’m too tired and groggy to object and, besides, he’s worried. He’s putting on a good show of being relaxed and matter of fact about all this, but when I steal a glance at him from the passenger seat, his face is taut and pale.
By the time we get back from the hospital, it’s half past three in the morning. I can barely keep my eyes open and my limbs feel weighted. Ross lowers me on to the bed and helps me take my clothes and shoes off, covers me tenderly with the duvet. Then he strips off and falls into bed next to me. Poor Ross. All that travelling in one day, and then hanging around in A & E for hours on end while I had blood tests and scans. But at least I’ve been thoroughly checked over.
I turn my head to speak to Ross, but he’s already sound asleep at my side. I rest my hand on the small of his back. I didn’t even ask him about his father.
I stare at the ceiling. Having a major seizure after all this time is a huge wake-up call. But just because it’s happened once doesn’t necessarily mean it will happen again. I just have to be more careful from now on. More vigilant when it comes to keeping my meds down.
Every couple of minutes the headlights from passing cars shine through a gap in the curtains and pattern the wall. I count the seconds between cars, notice small variations in the quality of light and the size and shape of the patterns. Anything to stop my mind dwelling on the terrible feeling of dread that sits in the pit of my stomach like a stone. The feeling that won’t be assuaged by rational thought.
The following weeks pass in a tedious blur of nausea and tiredness. I’ve been eating salty crackers to stop myself throwing up and I’m making a real effort to stay calm, but I can’t help feeling resentful that what’s meant to be a happy and exciting time has been overshadowed by my re-immersion into the world of hospital appointments and medical tests. Something I thought was a thing of the past.
‘You’d still have to go to hospital, even if you didn’t have epilepsy,’ Ross says one evening when I try to explain how it makes me feel. We’ve been measuring the spare room for curtains. The spare room that was going to be my study, but which is now going to be turned into a nursery.
‘You should hear Catherine on the medicalization of pregnancy and childbirth,’ he says. ‘It’s her—’
He stops when he sees my face and realizes what he’s just said.
Tension crackles between us like static. ‘It’s her what?’ My voice is cold, hard.
‘It’s her pet peeve,’ he says at last.
A flush of anger suffuses my face. ‘How come you’re so familiar with her pet peeves?’
He gives me an exasperated look, as if I’m the one who’s in the wrong, and maybe I am, but it’s too late now. I’m all wound up.
‘Because I work with her, Lizzie. Colleagues talk to each other. Surely you can’t expect me to ignore her?’
‘No, of course not. But I don’t expect you to bring her into our private conversations.’
The silence between us lengthens. Solidifies.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says at last. ‘I’ll try not to mention her again.’
‘Thank you.’
He tries to hug me, but something I’ve forgotten about until this very second, what with the seizure and all the hospital tests and the nausea, arrives in my head and sets me off again. I wriggle free from his arms.
