Twenty-Four Little Hours
Part Six
Thomas Warren Douglas Worthington.
That's what Warren and I decided to call our son, after a little deliberation. It seemed to meet with approval from everybody we mentioned it to (which was actually everybody in the mansion, to be honest), but the person I really wanted it to mean something to, aside from Warren, was Rebecca. She and I haven't always seen completely eye to eye about this new baby, but I think she's changed her mind, at least a little – she did suggest the name Thomas, after all. Now she and I are sat on the terrace of a fashionable coffee shop in the centre of New York City, sipping expensive coffee and eating expensive pastries. Well, in actual fact, Rebecca is the one drinking the coffee. Thanks to my condition, I'm restricted to orange juice. One can't ever have too much vitamin C, apparently, or so Hank insists on telling me every time he gives me a check-up.
It's at times like this that I wish I had more unusual cravings than most pregnant women; buckets of black coffee and a large selection of jam doughnuts every morning would be nice – and it would certainly be better than the cravings I've been getting so far. Having endless urges to eat massive amounts of curried mashed potatoes and gherkins (and occasionally clay or plasticine – which is slightly more disturbing, even though it's apparently not that unusual) is really not my idea of fun…
Ignoring that thought as best I can, I sip my orange juice and put down the copy of the Daily Globe I had bought around five minutes ago, in order to pass the time while Rebecca ran through this café's disgustingly decadent menu of Danish pastries and soft drinks, and watch my daughter finishing off the last few mouthfuls of her apricot-filled pastry with gusto, cramming the final flaking scraps of it into her mouth with her fingers, in a most un-ladylike fashion. This is rather a shame, because she's dressed in a far more lady-like fashion than I am; her lithe form is clothed in a sharp blue trouser suit, with a matching blouse and delicately understated jewellery (a diamond-encrusted X-motif brooch that Warren bought her sits on her left breast pocket, and a thin golden bracelet encloses her right wrist). I, on the other hand, am forced to endure an extremely unflattering king-size Led Zeppelin t-shirt (Bobby bought it for me back when I couldn't be shoe-horned out of my leather trousers and clingy tops, in the hope that I might loosen up a little. It failed then, and it's not doing all that much for me now except to cover my bump) and a pair of blue tracksuit bottoms that have been steadily loosened as the months have slipped by. Right at this moment, I think the only thing holding them up is my navel, which has inverted itself and now pokes out from the swell of my belly like the snout of a mole.
Needless to say, Bobby had a field day with that one...
"Are you finished?" I ask her, rhetorically. "I'd appreciate it if I could be certain it's safe to look at you without having to see a pig at a trough."
"Sure, Mum, I'm finished," Rebecca says, before slurping a large mouthful of fragrant dark coffee from her deep, white china cup. "I promise not to behave like a pig for at least five minutes." She wrinkles her nose at me and grins. "Can't say if I'll keep that promise, though."
"I trust you, Rebecca," I reply, my voice dry as autumn leaves, and then I fold my paper in two before sliding it underneath my black leather handbag. "I don't know why I trust you, but I trust you."
"Must be these eyes – Sam says he can never tell if I'm lying or not," Rebecca fires back, fluttering her eyelashes at me, before her face takes on a more serious aspect, and she folds her hands around her empty plate. "Why did you bring me all the way out here, Mum? It's not like we can't talk at home, so why go to all this trouble just for the two of us?"
"I wanted to thank you," I murmur quietly, reaching around my bump to stroke the back of her hand with my fingertips. "I know that this hasn't been very easy for you to deal with, Rebecca, so I wanted to tell how proud I am of you that you've reacted the way you have. You didn't have to do what you did last week, but you did, and I'm glad for that."
Rebecca blinks, a look of bemusement settling across her pretty face. She stays silent for a moment or two before she says, hesitantly, "Don't… don't mention it, Mum. It was the least I could do." A corner of her mouth tweaks itself up in a sheepish smile. "Don't think I did it because I'm getting more comfortable with the idea of having a baby brother, though. I only did it because I hate to see you and Dad fighting. That's all." Her smile changes shape slightly, becoming more rakish as it does so. "Besides, if I let on that I don't mind that much any more, who knows what you'll ask me to do?" She winks at me as she takes another sip of her coffee. "Just so you know: I draw the line at changing his nappy. I'll baby sit him, and I'll feed him, but me changing his nappy? That just isn't going to happen." To reinforce her point, she holds up a single index finger and wags it from side to side, as if she is admonishing me for even contemplating such a notion.
I shake my head, pursing my lips. "Well, then, I suppose you have a few things to learn about babies, Rebecca. You'll have to learn how to change a nappy at some point, my dear – if he wants to go, he'll go, and you won't have any say in the matter."
Rebecca shrugs. "I'll just get Sam to do it. He's probably had enough practice with his little brothers and sisters to be able to do it blindfold."
"I don't think Sam will put up with doing it for ever, darling," I say, thoughtfully. "Besides, I told him to teach you how to do it, just in case he's not there."
"You did what?" Rebecca exclaims, after almost snorting her mouthful of coffee out through her nostrils. "You know Sam will take that request really seriously, don't you? He'll have me right there the first time it happens! I'll be up to my elbows in baby powder!"
My smile widens. "I know. Exciting, isn't it?"
"Ha, ha, ha." Rebecca glares at me through cat-like, half-lidded eyes, her coffee cup safely stowed back in its saucer on the table. "You're a riot, Mum. I don't know how you haven't done stand-up yet."
I shrug, noncommittally, and then interlace my fingers and lay them on the table. "Oh, I'm just saving myself for a film career, darling. Once Tom is born, I'm off to Hollywood. I'm sure they'll just love to have an authentic British girl for their latest blockbuster…"
"Sorry to break it to you, Mum, but they'd probably want me before they'd want you," Rebecca says, stretching languorously, looking even more like a cat than she did before. "I have that certain je ne sais quoi they'd be looking for, after all." She runs a hand through her hair and puts her expensive sunglasses back on, as if to disguise her identity (in true celebrity fashion, of course), and then blows me a kiss. "You're cute, sweetie, but you just don't have it."
That makes me laugh broadly. "Oh, I wouldn't bet on that, button. I had it before you even knew what it was – I mean, I was on the cover of Vogue two months in a row, after all. Nobody else ever managed that before, and they haven't since. I have a feeling the world will beg me to let them kiss my feet once I tell them I want to see them again." I sip my orange juice and chuckle again, feeling a pleasantly warm sensation work its way through my body. "I was the one person they wanted photographs of each and every week, Rebecca. I could dress myself in a bikini or an evening dress, and they'd still want me to pose for them." My face abruptly takes on a reflective look, and I rest my chin on the knuckles of my upraised hands. "But, of course, that was all before Slaymaster blinded me. After that, I couldn't get a contract for love nor money."
Rebecca purses her lips, and then raises her right hand to grasp mine. She squeezes firmly, offering me a little smile at the same time. "Hey, now," she says. "Don't you go getting all depressing on me, okay? It doesn't suit you." She winks, and pushes her large, unfinished cup of coffee towards me. "Go on, Mum – treat yourself. I won't tell Hank if you don't."
"You're a very bad girl, you know," I tell her firmly, taking hold of Rebecca's half-full cup with gusto, "but I think I can overlook that… just this once." Raising the cup to my lips, I take into my mouth a grateful measure of the rich black liquid contained inside it, savouring the coffee's flavour over and above the residual tang of my orange juice. The caffeine hit is almost instantaneous, my poor, deprived body enjoying its first dose of any kind of stimulant for months. Rebecca looks at me uncertainly, even though she can undoubtedly feel my pleasure at being able to taste good coffee again.
"Good?" she asks, her eyebrows raised.
"Very," I reply, licking my lips and taking another sip. "I think I'll have to come back here more often."
*
After another ten minutes or so, Rebecca and I leave a tip for our waitress and start to walk along the busy street, Rebecca keeping her easy, loping strides as short as possible to try and avoid leaving me behind. She puts her hand in mine, in the hope that that will keep her anchored to me, and we are finally able to work out a rhythm that both of us can keep to. By this point, my formerly elegant gait has been reduced to a humiliating waddle, my centre of gravity so low that I feel like I'm going to fall on my backside at any moment – so I'm grateful for the effort, and tell Rebecca as much. She waves me quiet with her free hand, and makes a face that tells me not to be grateful for something so insignificant.
"I mean it," I say, wheezing slightly as my laboured lungs try to gather as much oxygen as they possibly can. "Anything you can do to help me at the moment is very much appreciated."
Rebecca lets a little scrap of reflective contemplation seep into her surface thoughts, and then she says "So… what does it feel like to be pregnant?"
The question almost finishes the job my son is doing, and nearly knocks me flat on my back – coming completely out of the blue as it does, it's something that even a highly skilled telepath would probably have had trouble reading or predicting (and I suspect that Rebecca takes a secret pride in that; having me for a mother and Jean for an aunt has made her quite quick to try and outdo one or both of us, if she possibly can). "I beg your pardon?" are the only words my stunned brain can muster.
"I'm serious, Mum. I'd really like to know what you're going through," Rebecca begins, glancing up at the crossing lights in front of us for a moment or two, before she helps me across the road, drivers either side of us looking increasingly annoyed that they have a heavily-pregnant woman interfering with their carefully-planned journey times. "What does it feel like to have another human being growing inside you?"
Once we have safely reached the other side of the pavement, I find the breath, somewhere, to say "Why do you ask? You and Sam aren't –"
"Oh, God, no," Rebecca laughs, squeezing my arm reassuringly. "I think I'll leave it to the professionals right now, Mum. I'm just… curious, you know?" She sniggers abruptly, putting a hand over her mouth to stifle a dirty laugh. "Well done for thinking the worst of me, though. Dad would be proud."
"I'm sure," I say, feeling laughter tugging at the corners of my mouth for a moment or two as well. "Anyway, you wanted to know what it's like to be pregnant. Well… for the first two months, you don't really feel all that different, aside from morning sickness."
"What about now?" Rebecca's pretty face is etched with fascination. "How do you feel now?"
"Ready to pop," I tell her, honestly, feeling yet another twinge in my back as my son's weight tugs at my spine. "I shall truly be glad to get this baby out of me. I'll tell you something, though: I wouldn't trade him for anything in the world."
"I think that's obvious to anybody you talk to, Mum," Rebecca replies. "I'm… glad you're happy." She smiles suddenly, as a thought strikes her. "Just don't forget me, okay?" That makes me laugh out loud, and hug my daughter to me as energetically as I possibly can.
"I don't think I could if I tried, Rebecca. You're far too… special."
Rebecca raises a carefully-sculpted eyebrow and purses her lips, looking uncharacteristically reflective. "I don't know if I should be flattered or offended by that."
"Flattered, of course," I say, doing my best to look as if her doubt has wounded me deeply. "You're my eldest daughter – my only daughter. I think that counts for something, don't you?"
Darkness suddenly falls across Rebecca's mind, like a summer thunderstorm rolling inexorably across blue skies. "Well, I'm not really your daughter, am I, Mum?" she says, her voice abruptly gone small, disappointed. The swift change in her mood startles me, and makes me wonder why this emotion did not come out sooner. The way Rebecca is looking at me suggests that this has been brewing for a while now, and this is the first time she has really given voice to it. The way her voice is quaking also tells me that she is unsure of how to articulate her emotions. "I'm just something you took in because you had to, aren't I? Be honest, Mum."
"In the beginning… yes, that's exactly how I felt," I say, feeling guilt gnaw hungrily at my mind. "But I don't feel like that now, button. I want you to be a part of this family, just as much as your father does. You see that, don't you?"
"Yes, but I'm just not the same as him, am I?" Rebecca gestures momentarily at my swollen belly, contempt for herself plainly evident in her words and emotions. "I'm not… normal, like he is. I can't really measure up to that, can I?" She scratches at her neck, looking down at the spider-webbed cracks in the pavement for a moment or two, before she raises her head again and links her suddenly tear-moistened gaze with mine. In an instant, I can feel the special bond that she and I have forged in our short time together snapping taut, like a rope given no more slack. With a speed that cuts through even my reflexes, Rebecca steps forward quickly and puts her arms around me, her hands clinging to me like an infant's tiny fingers, and her head laid against my chest, like a child begging for succour. It reminds me, oddly, of when she first reached out to me, all those months ago; the same sense of exposed, raw vulnerability she showed then seems to drive her actions now. I can sense a certain desperation in what she's doing, as if she feels she has no other alternative, and it breaks my heart. "I don't… I don't want to be second-best."
Hearing her say those words shocks me, right down to my core. "Is that what you think is going to happen when Tom is born? That your father and I are just going to ignore you now that we've got a new baby to look after?" I say, in disbelief. "That's never going to happen, Rebecca. I promise." Lifting her chin with my hand, and wiping her cheeks dry with my handkerchief, I give her my best attempt at a reassuring smile. "All right?"
Rebecca takes a deep breath and blinks away some remaining tears. "All right," she says, softly. She laughs quietly then, mirthlessly. "God, you must think I'm so stupid, throwing a dumb tantrum like that."
"I don't think you're stupid, sweetheart," I tell her, kissing her gently on the forehead and hugging her to me affectionately. "I think you were scared, yes, but you really had no reason to be. The only thing that's going to change because of Tom is your parents' sleeping habits – nothing you do or say will make me or your father love you any more or less than we already do. And besides, as grown-up children go, I'd much rather have you than Cable or Rachel."
"Okay, Mum," Rebecca deadpans, "you win; I believe you. I wouldn't tell my brother you said that, though."
"Oh, perish the thought," I say, placing a splayed hand on my chest in an overly extravagant display of manufactured shock. "Whatever do you take me for?"
"Somebody trying too hard to be funny," Rebecca replies, an air of mischief returning slowly to her voice. "You don't have to keep trying to make me laugh, Mum – I feel better already, honest." She raises a weak smile and presses her head against my chest once again, a little more self-confident this time. "Thank you. For everything."
"You're welcome," I whisper directly into her ear, "as long as you promise to learn what Sam wants to teach you about changing nappies."
Rebecca gives me an odd look for a moment or two, as if she can't believe what she's hearing, and then she purses her lips, appearing completely unfazed once again. "I should have known you'd say something like that," she says, some welcome wry humour flecking her words. "Okay, Mum. You drive a hard bargain, but… okay. It's a deal – as long as you start reading me bedtime stories as well."
"Good girl," I say with what I hope is infectious enthusiasm. "I'll start you off with The Cat In The Hat, shall I?"
"Sounds good to me," Rebecca smiles. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that she has one of the most beautiful smiles I've ever seen, and it warms my heart to see it. "I'll hold you to that."