The Secrets She Keeps, page 11
“Have you been crying?”
“It’s the rain.”
“When is your baby due?” asks the constable.
“In two weeks.”
The officer nods. He is younger than I first thought. A silver wedding band glints on his ring finger.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks.
“I went for a walk.”
“It’s raining.”
“I like the rain.”
I must look a mess. I must sound crazy.
“Do you have some form of identification?”
“I left my wallet in the car.”
“Where is your car?”
“Around the corner.”
“OK, let’s go to your car.”
The plot holes are apparent even as I come up with the plot. “Sorry, I made a mistake. I don’t have a car. I walked.” I glance around me. “I have to go. I’m due home.”
“Maybe you should let me take you,” he says, brushing raindrops off the shoulders of his jacket.
“No!”
He’s waiting for me to say something more, but I can’t begin to explain the misery of today. Turning his back, he talks into a shoulder radio. I hear the words “agitated” and “doctor.”
Growing anxious, I look both ways along the pavement, but there’s nowhere to run. I am such a wretched weakling, so easily thrown into turmoil, so quickly frightened and panicked. The creature laughs.
You’re in trouble now.
“Shut up!”
The constable turns. “Did you say something?”
“No.”
“I think you should come with me.”
“Where?”
“To the hospital.”
“I’m not sick.”
“I want the doctors to check out your baby.”
He leads me to the police car. “Mind your head.”
The last time I sat in a police car was when Elijah died. My mother sat next to me and we waited for the coroner to finish looking at his body.
“My name is Hobson,” he says, glancing at me in the mirror. He asks for my full name. I invent one. “Agatha Baker.” It sounds fake. I should have chosen a different one.
“Where exactly do you live, Agatha?” he asks.
“In Leeds,” I say. Another lie. “I’m visiting my sister.”
“Where does she live?”
“Richmond.”
“What were you doing beside the river?”
“Nothing.”
“Has something upset you?”
“No. I’m fine.”
The police car pulls up in an ambulance bay at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. The A&E department is on the ground floor. The waiting room is newly refurbished with polished wooden benches and bright green splashes of color. The seats are taken by the walking wounded, the bandaged, broken-limbed, and burned.
“They look very busy,” I say. “I could come back later.”
“We’re here now,” says Constable Hobson, ushering me to the reception desk.
I fill out a form using my fake name and address. A triage nurse looks into my eyes with a pencil light.
“How many weeks?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“What’s your GP’s name?”
“Dr. Higgins . . . he’s in Leeds.”
“You seem to be carrying quite low.” The nurse reaches for my stomach and I pull away. She frowns and tells me to pop into the next cubicle and slip on a gown. A doctor will be along soon.
Constable Hobson looks relieved. “Is there someone I can call—your husband perhaps?”
“He’s away at sea. He’s in the Royal Navy.”
“How about your sister?”
“She’ll be at work. I’ll call her. You don’t have to stay.”
I disappear behind the curtain. The examination room has a trolley bed and shelves full of disposable gloves, antiseptic wipes, and bandages. I can’t stay here. I can’t let them examine me.
Before I can move, a doctor appears. He looks young and tired and clever.
“You’re not undressed,” he says.
“Sorry, I misunderstood.”
He puts on a pair of surgical gloves and glances at his notes. “Agatha?”
I nod.
“Do you know what you’re having?”
“A boy.”
“When did you last feel him moving?”
“Just now—he’s right as rain.”
“Any blood or spotting?”
I flinch. “No.”
“Contractions?”
“Twinges.”
The trick to lying is not to add superfluous details. Keep it simple. Don’t elaborate or decorate. “Are you going to touch me?”
“I’m going to check the baby’s position. Then I’ll hook you up to a fetal monitor and we’ll listen to his heartbeat.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Definitely.
“I need to use the loo.”
He sighs impatiently. “It’s down the corridor. Third door on the left.”
“Won’t be long.”
Taking my overcoat, I slip past him, along the corridor. Reaching the ladies’, I duck inside a cubicle and try to steady my breathing. I can’t go back. I can’t let him touch me or see me naked.
Easing open the door, I lean out and scan the busy corridor. Turning away from the A&E, I walk purposefully past random nurses and white-coated doctors, who don’t appear to notice me. The corridor hits a junction. I turn right and then left. I pass a cleaner and a patient being wheeled by two orderlies. Reaching a dead end, I turn back.
A nurse asks, “Are you lost?”
I jump, startled. “I’m looking for the maternity ward.”
“You’re on the wrong floor.”
“Of course. My sense of direction is hopeless.”
She shows me to the lifts. I press the button and wait, glancing over my shoulder to make sure she’s gone. The doors open. A middle-aged woman is standing inside.
“Are you getting in?” she asks.
“No. Sorry.”
The doors close and I peel away, following the exit signs to the main entrance. Crossing the foyer, I keep waiting for someone to yell, “Stop!”
The creature twists inside me, enjoying this.
Run!
I haven’t done anything wrong.
You’ve faked a pregnancy.
That’s not against the law.
They’ll investigate. They’ll find out about the others.
As I near the main doors I notice an overweight security guard in a gray uniform. He’s pressing a walkie-talkie to his mouth. I keep my head down, not making eye contact. The automatic doors open. I turn along Fulham Road, shivering from the shock and the sweat and my rain-dampened clothes.
The creature is still talking.
They’ll come looking for you.
I gave them a fake name and address.
They’ll find you anyway.
There is no Dr. Higgins in Leeds and I don’t have a sister in Richmond.
What about the CCTV cameras?
A bus is coming. I raise my arm and step on board, sliding down into a seat, below the windowsill. I edge upwards and glimpse the police car still parked outside the hospital.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
MEGHAN
* * *
Simon has sent me another bunch of flowers, tulips this time, along with a card apologizing for his behavior.
Please forgive me, Meg, you’re the last person in the world I would ever want to hurt. I hope you’ll think about what I said. I love you, Meg, and I love Jack, but some things are more important than friendship.
I tell Jack the flowers came from a PR company that wants me to review a client’s baby products on my blog. I should have thrown them away because they keep reminding me of Simon and what he said to me. In a bad mood, I pick a fight with Jack, which is completely unfair because he’s done nothing wrong. I complain about the nursery not being finished.
“You promised to help.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You said that last week.”
“I was busy then.”
“Right, so shall I push the baby back? Tell him to wait until you’re less busy?”
“I’ll do it on the weekend.”
“You’re away this weekend.”
“On Sunday.”
Why is he being so reasonable? I want to yell, Don’t take my crap! Stand up for yourself!
Finally, I make some comment about Simon, saying, “At least he has a backbone.”
“What does that mean?” Jack asks.
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about Simon.”
“What has Simon done? You used to be friends.”
“He makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“How?”
“Forget it.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.” I feel my body betraying me, blushing from my ankles to the top of my head. “It’s the way he looks at me.”
“How does he look at you?”
“I take it back. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You can’t just take it back. He’s Lucy’s godfather. He’s my oldest friend.”
I stop talking, which finally makes Jack angry. He goes into the garden, where he plucks leaves from a bush and throws them into the air as though wishing they were rocks.
I feel guilty because I’m the one who deserves to be punished. I should be marched to the stocks or stoned like some biblical whore.
After Jack leaves for work, I wallow in self-pity, listening to an interview on Woman’s Hour. A mother whose baby girl disappeared five years ago is recounting what happened, her voice stripped bare and scoured by grief.
I checked on Emily when I went to bed and she was sleeping in her cot. Jeremy came home late and also looked in. She was still there. It was a hot night in August. We left the window open to catch the breeze. When I woke it was almost six. I thought Emily had finally slept through. I went to check on her, but the Moses basket was empty.
We have never given up hope of finding her alive, but we have to face the reality that with each passing year our chances are fading. But I’m asking again for information. Appealing for someone to come forward. With your help, we can end the torment of our uncertainty.
Lachlan has come into the kitchen. “Why is you crying, Mummy?”
“I’m not crying.”
“Your eyes are leaking.”
I touch my wet cheeks.
“Did the baby make you cry?” he asks.
“No.”
I hug him, burying my face into his neck. He hugs me back as hard as he can.
“Careful, you’ll hurt the baby,” I say.
“Can he feel me?”
“And he can hear you. Would you like to tell him something?”
Lachlan frowns in concentration and puts his face down, pressing it against my swollen belly.
“Don’t make Mummy cry.”
AGATHA
* * *
There is no baby inside me. I am carrying an idea. I am nursing a dream. Many things can be stolen—ideas, moments, kisses, and hearts, to name just a few. I am going to steal a baby. I am going to take what I am owed because others have more than enough. I am going to live the life I was meant to live—with a husband and a child.
I can’t remember the exact moment when I made the decision to fake a pregnancy. The idea seemed to germinate in darkness and grow slowly towards the light. I read a magazine story about a surrogacy arrangement where the new mother wore a prosthetic belly hoping to “share the experience” with the birth mother. Not for the first time, I shoved a pillow under my pajama top and stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, smoothing my bump, imagining myself pregnant.
I enjoyed the fantasy and began repeating it, adding more details each time. Going online, I discovered a website called My Fake Pregnancy, which sold three different sizes of prosthetic bumps, covering each trimester. Made from “high-grade medical silicone,” the bellies were supposed to look and feel like real skin. I read the testimonials from couples who used the prosthetics because they were adopting babies and wanted people to believe they were having their own.
It took a week for my order to arrive. I began wearing the prosthetics around the flat, never outside. I bought maternity clothes and played dress-up, feeding my fantasy with more and more real-world details, looking at nursery furniture and baby catalogues. At first I simply wanted to feel pregnant and imagine a baby growing inside me. Later, I wanted people to look at me differently. I wanted to be blessed. Special. Doted upon.
When I met Hayden I hid the prosthetic bumps away and hoped he might fall in love with me. He was kind and considerate and just handsome enough not to stray too far. I could imagine being his wife and having his child.
Jules fell pregnant and I celebrated even as I cried inside. I envied her swollen ankles and her sticky-out navel and her bliss. Hayden had gone back to his ship. I found the fake bellies in the back of the wardrobe and strapped on the largest size. Was that when I decided? Perhaps. Not all ideas come fully formed or from a single source. Often there are no lightbulb moments or crashes of thunder.
Faking a pregnancy isn’t difficult. It helped having Jules living so close. First I drained the water from my toilet and sabotaged the cistern so it wouldn’t flush. Then I invited Jules downstairs and plied her with cups of tea until she had to use my bathroom.
“Your toilet is broken,” she said. “It won’t flush.”
“It’s being temperamental.”
“Do you want Kevin to look at it?”
“No, Mrs. Brindle should call a plumber.”
After Jules had gone, I dipped a jar into the toilet bowl—a little icky, I know, but when needs must. The next day I went to see an out-of-area GP and sat in his waiting room amid coughing infants and crumbling old people, rehearsing a story in my head.
Dr. Bailey ushered me into a consulting room that smelled of alcohol swabs and handsoap. He had thinning hair and bushy eyebrows that made his forehead seem enormous. I wondered if his brain expanded to fill the space, or if it rattled around like a walnut in a saucepan.
“So this is your first visit,” he said, looking at his notes. “How do I pronounce your surname?”
“Fyfle.”
“And what can I do for you, Ms. Fyfle?”
“I think I might be pregnant.”
“How late are you?”
“Four weeks.”
“Have you taken a test?”
“I didn’t know how accurate they were.”
“Very.” He rolled his chair across the floor to a small bank of drawers, producing a syringe in sealed plastic. “I can do a blood test.”
“No, no, not a needle,” I said, covering my arms. “I faint at needles—ever since I was a little girl.”
He reached into a different drawer and handed me a jar. “The women’s room is just down the hall. Fill this up for me and I’ll do a pregnancy test.”
Inside the toilet cubicle I opened my bag and pulled out the bottle containing the sample I collected from Jules. After transferring the contents, I washed my hands and went back to Dr. Bailey’s office.
“Well, you’re definitely pregnant,” he said, showing me the stick. “You won’t see a pinker line than that one.”
“You’re sure?”
“These tests are never wrong.”
He signed a letter confirming that I was pregnant and told me to see my own GP, who would schedule an ultrasound and give me my dates. I took the letter home and pinned it to the fridge. Later I showed it to the girls at the supermarket, who were all excited for me, maybe even a little jealous, which I could understand.
I have been very diligent since then. No alcohol or soft cheeses, or sushi or mayonnaise, and I’ve put the bungee-jumping and skydiving on hold. If anyone lights up a cigarette nearby, I glare at them and hold my swollen belly.
In that first trimester I complained of morning sickness until the nausea seemed real and I slipped away to the staff toilet, retching into the bowl. Abigail held back my hair and fetched me water, telling me to sip it slowly.
Mr. Patel grumbled that I was avoiding the heavy jobs and disappearing to the toilet whenever he had a chore. I tried to explain to him about increased blood supply to the pelvic area and pressure on the bladder creating the urge to pee, but he covered his ears and retreated.
When I first wore a prosthetic belly outside—the smallest size—I felt self-conscious, but now it has become part of me. I wear tight-fitting dresses and proudly arch my back as I walk along the street, letting the world know that I am with child.
At twenty weeks I downloaded ultrasound pictures from the Internet. I doctored them up with my name and National Insurance number, making them look official. I showed them around work and stuck them on the fridge beside my favorite photograph of Hayden. By then I was so confident I wore my fake belly with summer dresses and silk blouses. Days and weeks went by when I lost myself in the dream. I felt the baby growing inside me. He kicked and hiccuped and rolled while I stroked my belly and spoke to him.
I’m on the biggest size now—the third-trimester version—and I love the looks I get from random strangers who smile at me as though I’m their favorite niece or daughter-in-law.
For months I told myself I could stop at any time. I could “miscarry” or move away from London, beginning my life somewhere else. But a small, irrational part of me hoped I could keep the deception going forever. Impossible, I know. A clock has been set running inside me—an hourglass with trickling sand. I have less than two weeks to go. Come that time I will have to lose my baby . . . or find one.
MEGHAN
* * *
I’m at a yoga class for pregnant women at a studio beneath Barnes Bridge station. I know most of the women, although each week we lose a few mothers as their babies arrive. The instructress is also pregnant, wearing a leotard so sheer and tight I can see her outie belly button. Her tank top has a cartoon drawing of a scowling pregnant woman and the caption: The word you’re looking for is “radiant.”
Speaking with breathless fervor, she exhorts us to “Inhaaaaale. Exhaaaaale. Inhaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaale. Start to find your breath, becoming more conscious of it. Inhaaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaale. Use my voice as a guide . . .”
“It’s the rain.”
“When is your baby due?” asks the constable.
“In two weeks.”
The officer nods. He is younger than I first thought. A silver wedding band glints on his ring finger.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks.
“I went for a walk.”
“It’s raining.”
“I like the rain.”
I must look a mess. I must sound crazy.
“Do you have some form of identification?”
“I left my wallet in the car.”
“Where is your car?”
“Around the corner.”
“OK, let’s go to your car.”
The plot holes are apparent even as I come up with the plot. “Sorry, I made a mistake. I don’t have a car. I walked.” I glance around me. “I have to go. I’m due home.”
“Maybe you should let me take you,” he says, brushing raindrops off the shoulders of his jacket.
“No!”
He’s waiting for me to say something more, but I can’t begin to explain the misery of today. Turning his back, he talks into a shoulder radio. I hear the words “agitated” and “doctor.”
Growing anxious, I look both ways along the pavement, but there’s nowhere to run. I am such a wretched weakling, so easily thrown into turmoil, so quickly frightened and panicked. The creature laughs.
You’re in trouble now.
“Shut up!”
The constable turns. “Did you say something?”
“No.”
“I think you should come with me.”
“Where?”
“To the hospital.”
“I’m not sick.”
“I want the doctors to check out your baby.”
He leads me to the police car. “Mind your head.”
The last time I sat in a police car was when Elijah died. My mother sat next to me and we waited for the coroner to finish looking at his body.
“My name is Hobson,” he says, glancing at me in the mirror. He asks for my full name. I invent one. “Agatha Baker.” It sounds fake. I should have chosen a different one.
“Where exactly do you live, Agatha?” he asks.
“In Leeds,” I say. Another lie. “I’m visiting my sister.”
“Where does she live?”
“Richmond.”
“What were you doing beside the river?”
“Nothing.”
“Has something upset you?”
“No. I’m fine.”
The police car pulls up in an ambulance bay at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. The A&E department is on the ground floor. The waiting room is newly refurbished with polished wooden benches and bright green splashes of color. The seats are taken by the walking wounded, the bandaged, broken-limbed, and burned.
“They look very busy,” I say. “I could come back later.”
“We’re here now,” says Constable Hobson, ushering me to the reception desk.
I fill out a form using my fake name and address. A triage nurse looks into my eyes with a pencil light.
“How many weeks?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“What’s your GP’s name?”
“Dr. Higgins . . . he’s in Leeds.”
“You seem to be carrying quite low.” The nurse reaches for my stomach and I pull away. She frowns and tells me to pop into the next cubicle and slip on a gown. A doctor will be along soon.
Constable Hobson looks relieved. “Is there someone I can call—your husband perhaps?”
“He’s away at sea. He’s in the Royal Navy.”
“How about your sister?”
“She’ll be at work. I’ll call her. You don’t have to stay.”
I disappear behind the curtain. The examination room has a trolley bed and shelves full of disposable gloves, antiseptic wipes, and bandages. I can’t stay here. I can’t let them examine me.
Before I can move, a doctor appears. He looks young and tired and clever.
“You’re not undressed,” he says.
“Sorry, I misunderstood.”
He puts on a pair of surgical gloves and glances at his notes. “Agatha?”
I nod.
“Do you know what you’re having?”
“A boy.”
“When did you last feel him moving?”
“Just now—he’s right as rain.”
“Any blood or spotting?”
I flinch. “No.”
“Contractions?”
“Twinges.”
The trick to lying is not to add superfluous details. Keep it simple. Don’t elaborate or decorate. “Are you going to touch me?”
“I’m going to check the baby’s position. Then I’ll hook you up to a fetal monitor and we’ll listen to his heartbeat.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Definitely.
“I need to use the loo.”
He sighs impatiently. “It’s down the corridor. Third door on the left.”
“Won’t be long.”
Taking my overcoat, I slip past him, along the corridor. Reaching the ladies’, I duck inside a cubicle and try to steady my breathing. I can’t go back. I can’t let him touch me or see me naked.
Easing open the door, I lean out and scan the busy corridor. Turning away from the A&E, I walk purposefully past random nurses and white-coated doctors, who don’t appear to notice me. The corridor hits a junction. I turn right and then left. I pass a cleaner and a patient being wheeled by two orderlies. Reaching a dead end, I turn back.
A nurse asks, “Are you lost?”
I jump, startled. “I’m looking for the maternity ward.”
“You’re on the wrong floor.”
“Of course. My sense of direction is hopeless.”
She shows me to the lifts. I press the button and wait, glancing over my shoulder to make sure she’s gone. The doors open. A middle-aged woman is standing inside.
“Are you getting in?” she asks.
“No. Sorry.”
The doors close and I peel away, following the exit signs to the main entrance. Crossing the foyer, I keep waiting for someone to yell, “Stop!”
The creature twists inside me, enjoying this.
Run!
I haven’t done anything wrong.
You’ve faked a pregnancy.
That’s not against the law.
They’ll investigate. They’ll find out about the others.
As I near the main doors I notice an overweight security guard in a gray uniform. He’s pressing a walkie-talkie to his mouth. I keep my head down, not making eye contact. The automatic doors open. I turn along Fulham Road, shivering from the shock and the sweat and my rain-dampened clothes.
The creature is still talking.
They’ll come looking for you.
I gave them a fake name and address.
They’ll find you anyway.
There is no Dr. Higgins in Leeds and I don’t have a sister in Richmond.
What about the CCTV cameras?
A bus is coming. I raise my arm and step on board, sliding down into a seat, below the windowsill. I edge upwards and glimpse the police car still parked outside the hospital.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
MEGHAN
* * *
Simon has sent me another bunch of flowers, tulips this time, along with a card apologizing for his behavior.
Please forgive me, Meg, you’re the last person in the world I would ever want to hurt. I hope you’ll think about what I said. I love you, Meg, and I love Jack, but some things are more important than friendship.
I tell Jack the flowers came from a PR company that wants me to review a client’s baby products on my blog. I should have thrown them away because they keep reminding me of Simon and what he said to me. In a bad mood, I pick a fight with Jack, which is completely unfair because he’s done nothing wrong. I complain about the nursery not being finished.
“You promised to help.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You said that last week.”
“I was busy then.”
“Right, so shall I push the baby back? Tell him to wait until you’re less busy?”
“I’ll do it on the weekend.”
“You’re away this weekend.”
“On Sunday.”
Why is he being so reasonable? I want to yell, Don’t take my crap! Stand up for yourself!
Finally, I make some comment about Simon, saying, “At least he has a backbone.”
“What does that mean?” Jack asks.
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about Simon.”
“What has Simon done? You used to be friends.”
“He makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“How?”
“Forget it.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.” I feel my body betraying me, blushing from my ankles to the top of my head. “It’s the way he looks at me.”
“How does he look at you?”
“I take it back. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You can’t just take it back. He’s Lucy’s godfather. He’s my oldest friend.”
I stop talking, which finally makes Jack angry. He goes into the garden, where he plucks leaves from a bush and throws them into the air as though wishing they were rocks.
I feel guilty because I’m the one who deserves to be punished. I should be marched to the stocks or stoned like some biblical whore.
After Jack leaves for work, I wallow in self-pity, listening to an interview on Woman’s Hour. A mother whose baby girl disappeared five years ago is recounting what happened, her voice stripped bare and scoured by grief.
I checked on Emily when I went to bed and she was sleeping in her cot. Jeremy came home late and also looked in. She was still there. It was a hot night in August. We left the window open to catch the breeze. When I woke it was almost six. I thought Emily had finally slept through. I went to check on her, but the Moses basket was empty.
We have never given up hope of finding her alive, but we have to face the reality that with each passing year our chances are fading. But I’m asking again for information. Appealing for someone to come forward. With your help, we can end the torment of our uncertainty.
Lachlan has come into the kitchen. “Why is you crying, Mummy?”
“I’m not crying.”
“Your eyes are leaking.”
I touch my wet cheeks.
“Did the baby make you cry?” he asks.
“No.”
I hug him, burying my face into his neck. He hugs me back as hard as he can.
“Careful, you’ll hurt the baby,” I say.
“Can he feel me?”
“And he can hear you. Would you like to tell him something?”
Lachlan frowns in concentration and puts his face down, pressing it against my swollen belly.
“Don’t make Mummy cry.”
AGATHA
* * *
There is no baby inside me. I am carrying an idea. I am nursing a dream. Many things can be stolen—ideas, moments, kisses, and hearts, to name just a few. I am going to steal a baby. I am going to take what I am owed because others have more than enough. I am going to live the life I was meant to live—with a husband and a child.
I can’t remember the exact moment when I made the decision to fake a pregnancy. The idea seemed to germinate in darkness and grow slowly towards the light. I read a magazine story about a surrogacy arrangement where the new mother wore a prosthetic belly hoping to “share the experience” with the birth mother. Not for the first time, I shoved a pillow under my pajama top and stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, smoothing my bump, imagining myself pregnant.
I enjoyed the fantasy and began repeating it, adding more details each time. Going online, I discovered a website called My Fake Pregnancy, which sold three different sizes of prosthetic bumps, covering each trimester. Made from “high-grade medical silicone,” the bellies were supposed to look and feel like real skin. I read the testimonials from couples who used the prosthetics because they were adopting babies and wanted people to believe they were having their own.
It took a week for my order to arrive. I began wearing the prosthetics around the flat, never outside. I bought maternity clothes and played dress-up, feeding my fantasy with more and more real-world details, looking at nursery furniture and baby catalogues. At first I simply wanted to feel pregnant and imagine a baby growing inside me. Later, I wanted people to look at me differently. I wanted to be blessed. Special. Doted upon.
When I met Hayden I hid the prosthetic bumps away and hoped he might fall in love with me. He was kind and considerate and just handsome enough not to stray too far. I could imagine being his wife and having his child.
Jules fell pregnant and I celebrated even as I cried inside. I envied her swollen ankles and her sticky-out navel and her bliss. Hayden had gone back to his ship. I found the fake bellies in the back of the wardrobe and strapped on the largest size. Was that when I decided? Perhaps. Not all ideas come fully formed or from a single source. Often there are no lightbulb moments or crashes of thunder.
Faking a pregnancy isn’t difficult. It helped having Jules living so close. First I drained the water from my toilet and sabotaged the cistern so it wouldn’t flush. Then I invited Jules downstairs and plied her with cups of tea until she had to use my bathroom.
“Your toilet is broken,” she said. “It won’t flush.”
“It’s being temperamental.”
“Do you want Kevin to look at it?”
“No, Mrs. Brindle should call a plumber.”
After Jules had gone, I dipped a jar into the toilet bowl—a little icky, I know, but when needs must. The next day I went to see an out-of-area GP and sat in his waiting room amid coughing infants and crumbling old people, rehearsing a story in my head.
Dr. Bailey ushered me into a consulting room that smelled of alcohol swabs and handsoap. He had thinning hair and bushy eyebrows that made his forehead seem enormous. I wondered if his brain expanded to fill the space, or if it rattled around like a walnut in a saucepan.
“So this is your first visit,” he said, looking at his notes. “How do I pronounce your surname?”
“Fyfle.”
“And what can I do for you, Ms. Fyfle?”
“I think I might be pregnant.”
“How late are you?”
“Four weeks.”
“Have you taken a test?”
“I didn’t know how accurate they were.”
“Very.” He rolled his chair across the floor to a small bank of drawers, producing a syringe in sealed plastic. “I can do a blood test.”
“No, no, not a needle,” I said, covering my arms. “I faint at needles—ever since I was a little girl.”
He reached into a different drawer and handed me a jar. “The women’s room is just down the hall. Fill this up for me and I’ll do a pregnancy test.”
Inside the toilet cubicle I opened my bag and pulled out the bottle containing the sample I collected from Jules. After transferring the contents, I washed my hands and went back to Dr. Bailey’s office.
“Well, you’re definitely pregnant,” he said, showing me the stick. “You won’t see a pinker line than that one.”
“You’re sure?”
“These tests are never wrong.”
He signed a letter confirming that I was pregnant and told me to see my own GP, who would schedule an ultrasound and give me my dates. I took the letter home and pinned it to the fridge. Later I showed it to the girls at the supermarket, who were all excited for me, maybe even a little jealous, which I could understand.
I have been very diligent since then. No alcohol or soft cheeses, or sushi or mayonnaise, and I’ve put the bungee-jumping and skydiving on hold. If anyone lights up a cigarette nearby, I glare at them and hold my swollen belly.
In that first trimester I complained of morning sickness until the nausea seemed real and I slipped away to the staff toilet, retching into the bowl. Abigail held back my hair and fetched me water, telling me to sip it slowly.
Mr. Patel grumbled that I was avoiding the heavy jobs and disappearing to the toilet whenever he had a chore. I tried to explain to him about increased blood supply to the pelvic area and pressure on the bladder creating the urge to pee, but he covered his ears and retreated.
When I first wore a prosthetic belly outside—the smallest size—I felt self-conscious, but now it has become part of me. I wear tight-fitting dresses and proudly arch my back as I walk along the street, letting the world know that I am with child.
At twenty weeks I downloaded ultrasound pictures from the Internet. I doctored them up with my name and National Insurance number, making them look official. I showed them around work and stuck them on the fridge beside my favorite photograph of Hayden. By then I was so confident I wore my fake belly with summer dresses and silk blouses. Days and weeks went by when I lost myself in the dream. I felt the baby growing inside me. He kicked and hiccuped and rolled while I stroked my belly and spoke to him.
I’m on the biggest size now—the third-trimester version—and I love the looks I get from random strangers who smile at me as though I’m their favorite niece or daughter-in-law.
For months I told myself I could stop at any time. I could “miscarry” or move away from London, beginning my life somewhere else. But a small, irrational part of me hoped I could keep the deception going forever. Impossible, I know. A clock has been set running inside me—an hourglass with trickling sand. I have less than two weeks to go. Come that time I will have to lose my baby . . . or find one.
MEGHAN
* * *
I’m at a yoga class for pregnant women at a studio beneath Barnes Bridge station. I know most of the women, although each week we lose a few mothers as their babies arrive. The instructress is also pregnant, wearing a leotard so sheer and tight I can see her outie belly button. Her tank top has a cartoon drawing of a scowling pregnant woman and the caption: The word you’re looking for is “radiant.”
Speaking with breathless fervor, she exhorts us to “Inhaaaaale. Exhaaaaale. Inhaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaale. Start to find your breath, becoming more conscious of it. Inhaaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaale. Use my voice as a guide . . .”
