Webs We Weave
Chapter 3By noon the next day our private room resembles the interior of a particularly well-stocked florists come gift shop. In actual fact any visitor could be forgiven for thinking that I'm opening my very own satellite branch of the hospital shop. I don't kid myself its because anyone actually likes me but put it very firmly down to the fact that its common knowledge that I'm currently working on staff appraisals; and the fact that my first 3 visitors are Jac, Maria and Donna, bearing flowers, chocolates and a 3 foot pink cuddly bunny respectively would appear to be a case in point.
I'm working on the appraisals when Elliot arrives just after lunch. To my delight I'm managing to juggle both laptop and baby without causing too much damage to either, a metaphor I hope to extend throughout my daughter's life. I have no intention of becoming a stay at home wife and mother; it wouldn't be in my nature. Sam did try to make noises to that effect when we were first married but it only took my pointing out that his Registrars salary would in no way, shape or form keep me in the manner unto which I've become accustomed for him to see sense, albeit via a huge row, our first as a man and wife, in which he offered me the opportunity of cutting off his testicles with a steak knife.
I declined, although he was being such a sanctimonious little prick that in all honesty it could have gone either way. Still, no one ever said marriage was easy, and I should know – I endured married life with Michael.
Digression aside, while I'm thrilled by my attempts at playing the working mum, Elliot seems less impressed, blustering around me, desperately trying to extricate my laptop from the tight grip I have on it. I appreciate that he cares but quickly find his efforts irritating and don't hesitate to set him straight.
"Elliot." I say firmly, talking to him as I might an unruly, undisciplined 3rd year med student, "It's just a few little appraisals," A blatant lie as it happens – I'm on my 10th of the day, each several pages long – but he doesn't need to know that, "my baby," I continue, gesturing to the content looking little bundle in my arms, "is happy with me doing them, so why is it such a problem to you?"
He gives me the look that he's oft given me over the past few months. It's almost fatherly in its nature and seems to contain an unhealthy mix of disapproval and concern which to be honest, if I didn't find so amusing, would possibly leave me feeling rather disconcerted.
"The problem is not with the baby." He says sternly, reminding me again of someone's father although admittedly not my own on the grounds he wasn't drunk and beating my mother, "It's with you Connie." He takes my typing hand in his to stop me in my tracks, "You look exhausted."
I shake his hand, and his concern away, "I'm fine Elliot; I've never been better." And although I am tired, it's true. With my baby in my arms I feel more content than I have done in a long time. I feel complete, as if she's what has been missing all my life, and in all honesty she probably is.
All the same though, I wait for Elliot to argue with me and am somewhat relieved when he doesn't, instead stepping back and looking at me, as if seeing me for the first time. Then, he smiles,
"Well it does suit you." He concedes finally, "Baby, laptop and all." I'm suddenly very aware that there are tears in his eyes and when he speaks again, I understand why, "Gina said it would be good for you. She was convinced."
I feel teary myself then, touched that the friend I'd made all so briefly, had had so much faith in me, faith that in truth, I hadn't at that point had in myself.
It seems like a fitting moment to tell him my daughter's name, but when I do so I fear its too much for him as he looks like he's about to crumple completely and so I gently propel my daughter into his arms, to act as a distraction as much as anything. I know if he breaks down now I'm likely to follow suit.
"Go on Gina, go to uncle Elliot."
She takes to him instantly, far quicker than I ever did, proving that Gina Hope Strachan is a far better judge of character than her mother will ever be, and we fall into a scene of cosy domesticity as we chat while he cradles her, and I sneakily start work on my appraisals again, taking advantage of the fact I now have two hands available to me rather than one.
It's so cosy in fact that I find it easy to forget that there are, in fact, serious issues between Elliot and I; deeply hidden secrets that run a serious risk of imploding our relationship should they ever come to light, and its only as he hands Gina back to me as he's about to leave that it all comes flooding back to me as a result of an innocent comment he makes.
"I bet Martha adores her."
I say nothing at first, shaken in the first instance purely by the mention of his daughter's name, and then as I realise that for all the visitors I have had, she has been notable in her absence. I suppose I ought not be surprised – I can't say I'd be queuing up to see the child of a former lover, but at the same time given her alleged status as my best friend I can't help feeling disappointed that she wasn't first in line to visit me.
Elliot must notice my less than positive reaction because he immediately draws the correct conclusion, "Has she not been in?"
I shake my head but offer nothing more, not keen to let him see how hurt I am but that must be pretty clear anyway given the way I quickly find his arm wrapped round my shoulder,
"I'm sure she'll pop by later." He says reassuringly, "It is very busy on the ward today."
"And yet you still managed to get here." I regret the words the second they're out of my mouth – I sound like a petulant five year old which in itself is bad enough, but if Martha gets wind of my mood questions will indeed be asked. I force a smile, trying desperately to dilute the comment and convince Elliot that he doesn't need to drag Martha kicking and screaming to my bedside.
Some hope.
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She arrives that evening, her arrival announced by Sam who takes great pleasure in it, much to my – and I suspect her – abject horror.
"Ah, the babysitter, how marvellous!" Unaware of me cringing at his side he continues happily, "Have you come to get acquainted with 'the charge'?" He looks at me, and apparently looks right through the horrified expression on my face, "Hand her over darling, we need to get this one trained up."
There is no real answer I can offer and so I just let him take Gina from my arms, and dump her on Martha who appears to be as tempted to smack him as I am. On a scale of 1 to awkward the scenario ranks right up there with the bridesmaid fiasco and an evening on the ward when he saw fit to ask her if she fancied coming home with us for a threesome – an innocent joke on his part obviously, but a joke too far all the same.
Only my darling Gina, who, almost as if I'd trained her for it, woos Martha with a kick of her legs and a happy gurgle, saves the situation. The atmosphere, such as it was, fades near instantly as she undoes all the damage her daddy has caused, wrapping Martha around her little finger in a manner than even impresses me, a grand mistress in the art of finger wrapping.
"She's so beautiful." Martha murmurs, glancing in my direction as she does so and bashing me over the head with a metaphorical guilt stick as it becomes obvious to me that she's on the verge of tears. I try to stay hard to it, but fail miserably and soon, much to Sam's amusement I've got tears streaking my cheeks too.
"What is wrong with you two?" He asks, rolling his eyes in mock despair, "I mean at least she," he nods in my direction, "can blame the hormones," he turns to Martha who now isn't on the verge of tears so much as in floods, "what's your excuse?"
Martha blushes, lost for words, and since I suspect her 'excuse' revolves around unspoken issues that she's in no hurry to share with my husband I leap to her defence,
"It's a girl thing darling."
He grins, a cynical expression on his face, "A girl thing eh?"
I nod. It is, after all, one way to describe the situation between Martha and I, not that I'm about to see fit to give him all the details. He's obviously convinced though because he rises from his chair, "Right then, I'll leave you to your 'girl thing' and go and find myself some dinner." He looks at Martha and smiles, "Oi, Cry-baby, look after them my girls for me…"
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