Nine Months

by Sarah Ball

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

It isn't until her boyfriend Tom heads off for his year abroad that Holly realises just how much she's going to miss him. But Tom's left her with rather more than just a passionate memory of their last night together. Holly's clothes are getting tighter, she has cleavage for the first time in her life, and the sickness she thought was down to the morning-after-the-night-before is lasting all day. Holly Piper is pregnant!

Suddenly thrown into an alien world of antenatal classes, stretch marks and big knickers, Holly is relieved that at least she has the support of Alice and Maggie, her two broody best friends. But what of Tom? Holly isn't even sure how she feels about him, let alone his feelings for her. And she has no way of contacting him. A year is a long time for him to be away. But for Holly, the first nine months are going to be the hardest . . .

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Release date: October 4, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

My hair whipped out behind me in one long silken stream, tossing this way and that as I cruised through deep space. My sparkling red dress clung tightly against my svelte figure, plunging to a dramatic cleavage that made Melinda Messenger’s bosoms look like a couple of ping-pong balls on a bowling green. Silver bells tinkled from a place I couldn’t detect. I changed my direction, seeking the source of the hypnotic notes, when suddenly an axe descended from a nearby planet, splitting my head into two evenly sized pieces.

‘Shit!’ I sat bolt upright, trying to hold my skull together and nosedived off the bed and on to the cold wooden floor. My elbow and the bedside table met and introduced themselves as I lashed out at the trilling alarm clock. I knocked it spinning on to the floor beside me and we both lay silent for a moment, casualties of the daily grind.

‘Oh God. Why do I have to get up when it’s still dark outside? It’s not normal.’ I scooped up the clock. ‘Five-thirty. I bet even Lorraine Kelly’s tucked up at this time of day.’

Normally I’m a morning person, up with the milkman so to speak. But over the last couple of days I’ve found it rather reminiscent of being born, wrenched from the warm cocoon of 14-tog into the unforgiving December air. If my customers had walked in and slapped my bottom until I cried, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. I could sense Christmas looming nearer, and with twenty-two days left to go the seeds of mania are finally sprouting. Bath is suddenly swamped with plagues of gift hunters and tourists. Owning a café in the heart of the city at Christmas is usually exciting and energising, yet this year the excitement has so far eluded me.

I stood up slowly and gingerly rubbed my temple. ‘Shit!’ I cursed again and made a bumbling attempt at a sprint towards the bathroom. In the nick of time I skidded to a halt by the toilet and proceeded to be violently ill.

After half-heartedly cleaning myself up I crawled back into bed and called Maggie.

‘Mags, it’s me.’

‘What’s up, mate? You sound rough.’

‘I feel worse than rough. I’ve just brought up last night’s curry.’

‘Thanks, Holly, I was about to have a bagel.’

‘I’m serious, I feel like death!’

She made a vaguely pitying noise. ‘I thought you looked a bit pissed last night.’ She laughed, then said, ‘Hang on, you only had a couple of wines, were you sneaking them in when I wasn’t looking?’

I drew my feet up, hugging my knees to my chest and nursed my tummy as it churned like a washing machine. ‘No honestly, it’s not a hangover, I hardly drank anything. I think I must be coming down with something.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t the curry?’

‘Well, how do you feel?’

‘Great. Okay, so it wasn’t that. Must be a bug then.’

‘It’s the first Saturday in December. I can’t afford to be ill,’ I whined. ‘I’ve got to check the stock and write the Christmas roster. I was going to put up the decorations this morning and that’s before I’ve thought about cooking for a few hundred shoppers.’ My head felt as though Michael Flatley had called in to dance on my brain.

‘Look, don’t stress. I’m not the assistant manager for nothing, you know. I’ll come in and start cooking. I can call the Saturday staff and get them to come in early. The roster and stock can keep a few more days. I might even dangle a few baubles from the counter if you’re lucky. I’ll pop up in a few hours to see how you feel.’ She said this with a brisk efficiency that only emphasised my own helplessness.

‘You’re a real pal, are you sure you can cope?’ I sighed gratefully.

‘Of course. Now back to bed and I’ll see you soon.’ She hung up the phone before I could reply. I exhaled deeply and closed my eyes, thanking God that Maggie was dynamic enough for both of us.

Maggie May has been one of my closest friends since junior school. We’ve had more fights than Kermit and Miss Piggy, yet I have more respect for her than anyone else I know.

When Maggie was ten her father ran off with a distant relative, never to be seen again. Maggie often says she wishes her mother would be inspired to follow his lead and I have to say I don’t blame her sometimes.

A Rod Stewart fan down to her Cuban heels (hence calling her daughter Maggie May), Irene has been a constant source of painful embarrassment for her daughter. She struts about like Tina Turner at a vicars’ and tarts’ party, with a huge chest bursting from a black leather boob tube like a builders bum without the hair, and not content with resembling a large ocean mammal, she drinks like one too. Many of our girls’ nights out had been tainted an embarrassing red from chance meetings with her in bars and clubs.

Last night was no exception. I’d been out for a curry with Maggie and Alice. Afterwards we had met Alice’s boyfriend Oliver and his mate Noah (a real life African Adonis) at The Temple, a trendy new club in the centre of the city. We had only been there half an hour when Maggie’s mother had arrived with a gaggle of middle-aged tarts. Too pissed to dance around their handbags they surrounded us with their lofty hairdos and proceeded to flirt unashamedly with Oliver and Noah. Irene overstepped the mark when she tried to slip her hand down Noah’s combat trousers and got a torrent of abuse from Maggie. This resulted in the lads sloping off into the crowds not to be seen again and Alice fighting back tears, convinced that Oliver was going to break up with her.

The way I felt this morning I was wishing I had stayed at home last night, with a gin and tonic and a facepack.

Fifteen minutes later I heard Maggie arriving downstairs and made a mental note to take the customer bell off the front door. I dozed a little more, my head swimming in a soup of kitchen sounds. Wooden spoons banged against pans, pottery clattered together like percussion instruments and doors opened and shut, announcing the arrival of the kitchen staff. They were all comfortably familiar, the soundtrack of my life for the past four years.

I had invested in the café when I was just twenty-three, with a large percentage of a generous inheritance from my late grandfather. My parents were delighted with my surprising head for business and astounded that I hadn’t used the money to go on the most major clothes shop of all time, followed by a holiday in the Canaries with all my friends. I have to be honest and say that that had been my second choice and it was a tricky decision. Fortunately, I thought about it seriously. I knew that if I wanted to follow my dream and set up in business I wouldn’t get a better opportunity than that. My chances of another windfall were minimal and the prices of property were beginning to creep up. Instinct told me to put aside any fears about my age and lack of experience. I knew if I didn’t take the plunge there and then the money would end up frittered away on rubbish quicker than you could say, ‘end of season sale’, and I would end up always wondering what might have been. It was the best decision I had ever made, and despite an underlying fear of failure and a morbid need to trawl the papers for articles on percentages of folding businesses (with catering always being used as an example!), the Owl and Pussycat Café was still the longest and most passionate love affair I had ever enjoyed.

I was jolted awake once again by Maggie trying to sneak a tray of food and a pot of tea next to the bed.

‘What time is it?’ I croaked. My tongue felt as furry as a bearskin rug on a shagpile carpet.

‘It’s only eleven o’clock, I thought you might like a bite to eat. Are you feeling any better?’ She parked herself on the bed by my feet as I sat up and stretched.

‘Mmm, don’t worry I don’t think I’ll be sick again. I’m just worn out. How’s it going downstairs?’

She rolled her eyes skyward then pulled an expression of wide-eyed innocence. ‘Don’t you trust me with your baby?’

‘I guess I can trust you in business, just not as far as men are concerned.’

‘Lucky you have an all female staff then, isn’t it? Mind you, as for that organic veg delivery man, let’s just say I’d nibble his natural produce anytime!’ She licked her lips Hannibal Lecter style and I couldn’t help but laugh.

‘You’re gross.’

‘No, YOU’RE gross! Have you checked the mirror lately? Your hair looks like a tumble weed!’ She ruffled my hair affectionately then clapped her hands together business style. ‘Anyway as for the café, we opened at ten as usual. All the food’s done. Today’s specials are …’ she pointed to a large crimson stain on her white apron, ‘Ratatouille,’ then to a yellow mark on her sleeve, ‘this one’s a spinach, mushroom and cashew nut gratin, and this here is the soup of the day: vichyssoise flavoured with nutmeg and thyme. The chocolate muffins are selling like hot cakes, funny that, them being hot cakes and all. Your boozy mince pies have had three compliments to the chef already, and Shelley called in sick this morning, so Alice has come in to help, which will save you a few bob in wages. All in all things could not be better, touch wood,’ she concluded by reaching over to touch a photograph of my current boyfriend, Tom.

I slapped her hand hard.

‘Youch!’ she cried, snapping it back.

‘I was just about to tell you how brilliant you’ve been until you did that,’ I sulked.

‘Well, there’s no need for violence Mrs passive vegetarian earth mother,’ she said sarcastically.

I poured out the Earl Grey she had brought up and bit into the warm cheese toastie.

‘Ooh yes!’ I mopped the juice from my chin. ‘Now I definitely feel better. By the way, has Alice cheered up since last night?’

Maggie tutted distastefully. ‘She’s mooching about like a Jane Austin heroine. It’s painful to watch. She hasn’t heard from Oliver and I’ve told her that the prat’s not worth a second thought, but you know what she’s like; I swear she enjoys being a martyr.’

I sipped my tea frowning at her. ‘You’ve got to be a bit sympathetic. She’s really in love with him and Oliver’s good at manipulating her. And you don’t see what they’re like when they’re alone.’

She clutched her stomach. ‘Please, make room for me in the sick bed.’

I pretended not to hear her. ‘Maybe I’ll get up now and join you downstairs.’

‘No way! You should have the whole day off just in case. We can all cope.’

‘But I feel guilty, I mean I’m fine now.’

She got up and brushed the wrinkles from her short black skirt, then waggled a finger at me. ‘Your trouble is you have too much conscience. How about Alice and I come up with tea when we’re finished. Maybe with two people talking sense to her she’ll come round.’

I smiled and fell back against the pillows. ‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

After Maggie had left I leaned over to retrieve my photograph of Tom and polished it gently with the corner of my duvet. I stroked the shaggy mop of hair that framed his face like moss around a tree, and admired the even tan he had developed from countless backpacking holidays. Tom made Michael Palin look like an agoraphobic couch potato and at this moment he could be anywhere in the world as far as I knew. The only postcard I had received was from New York where his journey had begun; it had been dated for the day after he had arrived, just over a month ago. Every morning I bounded at the postman like a mad spaniel starved of breakfast. Maggie teased me that she was going to hang a sign on the door warning ‘Beware of the chef.’

I sifted eagerly through the mail, but received nothing other than invoices and letters from charities beginning ‘Dear Friend’. It appeared everyone wanted a piece of me except the one I cared about the most. A year of waiting for him was going to be harder than I had first anticipated. I threw off the covers and padded over to the bathroom. I needed a deep soak in the tub to soothe the ache I had for him.

On Thursday morning I woke up and tentatively opened one eye to peer around the bedroom. Fortunately it stayed still long enough to enable me to focus on the Andy Warhol print hanging opposite me. I opened the other eye, blinking hard. Still nothing. The furniture was surprisingly stationary. I got up to make myself a pot of tea and a round of toast and when it was ready I carried it over to the phone.

‘Hey Mags, it’s me.’

‘Please don’t tell me, whatever colour it was I don’t want to know,’ she groaned.

I chuckled at her and bit hungrily into the toast. ‘It’s okay, I wasn’t sick this morning. I think it’s finally gone.’

She made a ‘hmmm I’m not convinced’ noise. ‘Are you sure? It has been coming and going rather a lot. You could just be having a good morning.’

‘No, I’m sure, this is the most human I’ve felt all week. I’m going down to make a start.’

‘Do you want me in early again?’

‘Um, no thanks. It’ll probably be slow to pick up today. If you come in just before ten, that’ll be fine.’

‘Okay then, mate, if you insist. See you later.’

I hung up and began to get dressed, excited at the prospect of getting back to work. It had been maddeningly frustrating to hear the café below running so efficiently without me. I had half hoped that I would be called upon to assist in some minor crisis they had unwittingly caused. But no, I was left respectfully alone to vomit in the bathroom as tasty cooking smells and the happy clatter and chatter of customers rose up to my apartment. Evidence that my presence was not required. I was as disposable as the toilet roll I had used to mop my face.

I hurried downstairs and unlocked the heavy door that led into the dining area. It was eerily cold and quiet inside so I flicked on the heating and the lights. I sat on one of the limed oak tables and drank in the atmosphere.

Tom’s father, Marcus Delanci, was a talented interior designer. I had found him in the Yellow Pages and had invited him to come and see the place I had bought and to give me a free quote, naively unaware of the cost of personal interior design. We had hit it off instantly. I’m not quite sure why he had warmed to me. Perhaps I had reminded him of himself, as we shared a similar belief that the only way to be truly happy in our working life was to be brave, avoid the standard office career and get people to pay you for what you are most passionate about. In my case that was cooking, in his, decorating. My combination of stubborn determination, passion and the blind terror of taking such a risk must have been evident in my voice as we spent the morning chatting. We had finally agreed on a significantly reduced price for the work he would carry out in exchange for allowing him to use the café as an advert for his work. The drawings I had made of how I wanted the café to look had convinced him that we could get the local press interested in running a feature on the place when I was ready to open, benefiting us both with free advertisements. To be honest I didn’t think he was motivated by money, more a fatherly instinct to help me out.

I had admired the outline of his body as he measured the dimensions of the dining area. He was gorgeous, in a George Clooney kind of way. I began to look forward to seeing him on a daily basis in loose-fitting overalls, paint spattered on his crease-lined face and bending over at regular intervals. It was at that point that he had turned and invited me back to his house that evening to draw up the final plans and meet his wife and kids. I mentally kicked my own backside for getting so carried away.

As it turned out, his ‘kids’ were both in their mid-twenties and could beat their father in the looks department quite nicely thank you very much. That was when I had first met Thomas Delanci and our relationship began.

I used to see Tom when I was out drinking with Alice and Maggie. We would stand at the bar and chat for a while until one of our friends dragged us away, but after a few months we got to the stage where we were familiar enough with each other to grab a table and chat until the pub shut. My friends slowly got to know his friends, and before too long we were all going on to clubs together or calling each other up. I saw Tom essentially as a good friend. He wasn’t like a lot of men I spoke to in pubs, he wasn’t into flirting and getting women into bed, he just wanted to have a good time, without complications.

I wasn’t surprised to discover that Tom was into rock climbing and surfing, it fitted his style well. He had the body of a surfer: tall and lean, and his muscles had a hint of definition, although not enough to suggest he was seriously athletic. He often brought his friends into the café for lunch on Saturdays. Sometimes I would join them and laugh at their funny stories and other times I would be too busy so would work around them, occasionally catching his eye and grinning. Every now and again I would go over to his house for the evening. We would sit up in his room drinking bottled lager and watching videos. If I wasn’t working too early the next day I would stay over. After sex, instead of saying he loved me, he would ruffle my hair or we would play fight. We never got too romantic and always referred to each other as ‘mates’.

Our friends used to tease us if we went home together after the pub, winking at us and laughing together. Sometimes they would make a comment about us ‘being good together’ or ‘don’t they make a great couple’, and we’d just laugh along with them. I’d tease Tom, saying he was ‘too scruffy, and like the brother I never had’ or he would joke that I was a ‘scary business woman that didn’t have enough free hours in the day to indulge him in his favourite hobbies’.

One time Tom talked me into going rock climbing with him at a converted church in Bristol. I was amazed at how graceful he was, negotiating the wall like a spider. When it was my turn I felt so self-conscious in the harness, designed to draw maximum attention to my backside, that I only managed the first half-a-dozen moves. Tom had put his hands on my bum, trying to stop me from falling, but I had slipped away from him and crash-landed on the mat. I was convinced everyone was checking out my bottom, all trussed up in the harness, and laughing at it. When I went to the changing room later on I realised that Tom had left two perfect hand prints, one on each bum cheek, from the chalk he had used on his hands to give him more grip on the rock. I was so embarrassed I never went back again, despite his best efforts to convert me.

Tom and I fell into an easy pattern. We were good friends first and foremost. I don’t think either of us wanted to jeopardise that by getting too serious.

I sighed out loud, trying to block thoughts of Tom from my mind.

Sitting back on the table I admired Marcus’s handiwork. He had made a fantastic job of turning my sketchy drawings into a tangible reality. The ceiling and walls had been painted with a trompe-l’oeil summer sky. A warm blue with fluffy white clouds dotted randomly amongst small silver stars. In the corner of the café was a cosy alcove with fretwork panelling for customers who enjoyed their privacy. Here the sky turned to dusk and the clouds reflected gold amongst harmonious shades of sunset red and blushing pinks. ‘Lovers’ corner,’ Alice dreamily called it; ‘horny corner’ was Maggie’s preferred description.

Where the ceiling met the walls Marcus had written the words to the ‘Owl and The Pussycat’ poem. They ran the circumference of the room like an ornate border in beautifully scripted silver italics, and standing proud like sentries on either side of the counter were two large wooden carvings. One was a wide-eyed spectacled owl, the other a sensuous black cat with a tail curled around its padded feet. The owl’s hooked beak and the cat’s nose had been slightly worn down by customers who had stroked them whilst waiting to be served. It wasn’t something I had encouraged; instead the customers had taken to doing it almost as a superstitious gesture to bring good luck. In every available corner were lush green palm trees. The rest of the café was simple, in the Scandinavian sense of the word. The furniture and floorboards were stripped bare and lime waxed, and white muslin drapes dressed the huge floor to ceiling windows. It was fresh, modern and tasteful, and I still had to pinch myself sometimes, as it was so hard to believe it all belonged to me.

I had deliberately shied away from the more stereotypical ideas of what a veggie restaurant would look like and serve. There were no pine tables, no panpipes or Enya playing in the background, no brown plates and above all else no brown food! As far as I was concerned no meat didn’t mean no fat, no flavour, and no fun. I didn’t subscribe to the wholefood approach, although I’m sure it was great for keeping you regular or whatever it was it professed to do. I just wanted to serve food that was exciting and indulgent. Dishes I could serve to meat eaters that they could enjoy without feeling like there was something missing. And so far I seemed to have succeeded. I was surprised how many customers told me they were actually meat eaters, and the majority of messages in the comments box were kind and praiseworthy. I always felt a jolt of panic when I saw a customer put something in the comments box. I was paranoid that I would lose favour, and people would decide I was ‘old hat’ rather than ‘old favourite’. I analysed every remark for hints of a sway in customer opinion.

About once a week I’d get some smart Alec asking me if I did beefburgers, or ‘didn’t I feel sorry for the poor carrots?’ as if they were the first person to think that one up. I usually just stifled a yawn and gave them a blank look. It was the same when I got chatting to blokes in the pub or at parties. When they found out what I did for a living they would always look surprised or intrigued and quiz me about why I chose to abstain from meat, like I had to explain myself. Years ago I used to relish this. I enjoyed getting their attention, and used to argue fervently, thinking I could change the world, but after a while I tired of being a novelty to them and hearing the same arguments over and over again. Nowadays I took the stand that I am what I am; it was no more interesting than that. This attitude seemed to sit well with the customers as they knew I wasn’t trying to change people’s opinion or going to make them feel guilty; the café was for everyone to enjoy.

The rising sun was just beginning to nudge into view through the drapes. It hit the floor and bounced off the chrome appliances behind the counter. I figured it was time for action and began turning on the machinery, starting most importantly with the coffee machine.

Maggie arrived an hour later when things were in full swing. She flicked the sign to open as she came through the front door.

‘Mmm, that smells good,’ she said, heading straight to the cups and saucers to pour herself a large expresso.

I popped my head around the kitchen door. ‘Go easy on the produce, you greedy moo.’

She sipped it with such enthusiasm you’d think it had been served in a Chippendale’s belly button. ‘One of the perks of the job,’ she replied, challenging me with a grin and adding, ‘Or should I say percolations?’

I groaned. ‘That’s awful.’

Looking me up and down she said, ‘Blimey, you look so much more normal.’

‘You mean I’m not crawling around on all fours, begging you to end my life.’

‘If you had done that today I was going to insist on ringing the doctor,’ she said seriously as she tied her long curly black hair back into a scrunchy.

‘Well, I saved you the bother. I’m fitter than ever today. Raring to go,’ I said, jogging on the spot and punching the air like a boxer to emphasise my point.

Maggie joined me in the kitchen, donned an apron and began washing vegetables for a soup. ‘So, do you think you’d be up to a party on Saturday night?’

‘Count me in. Where is it?’

She pulled an Elvis sneer. ‘Well, that’s the worst bit. It’s at the lovely Oliver’s house. But Alice really wants us to be there. Probably so the three of us can keep an eye on him. But the upside is my mother definitely won’t be there and everyone else will; including Simon and Charlie, who I’m convinced both fancy you, so you’re bound to pull.’

‘Oi!’ I chucked a mangetout at her, ‘Simon is Tom’s brother and Charlie’s his best friend. Don’t you think it would be a bit underhand of me to sleep with one of them, even if they were up for it? Which I doubt,’ I stressed.

‘And you expect him to be faithful, do you?’ She raised her eyebrows as she spoke.

‘Well, even if he isn’t I don’t think he’d manage to find any of my close friends or relatives to do it with in Kathmandu or wherever the hell he is,’ I snapped. I couldn’t help but feel mad at her for her insensitivity. Maggie hadn’t made an emotional attachment to a man in her whole life. She seemed to think it was a sign of weakness. I hadn’t let on how I felt about Tom and I swallowed hard, not wanting her to see that I was hurt.

The metallic trill of the customer bell saved me from any further discussion as she disappeared to take their order.

I stood in my underwear, staring at my bed and fighting the urge to drop on it with exhausted abandon. It had been a tough week. The café had been packed for the past few days and I had been too busy to even sit down. That had probably been a good thing because if I had, I never would have got back up.

I surveyed my reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. My blue eyes had lost their usual sparkle. They were bloodshot and bordered by dark circles. My usually wild brown hair had lost its will to rebel against gravity and instead hung limply to my shoulders. I had dried my hair upside down to try and give it volume, but all I had achieved was to make my thick wiry grey hairs stand on end like antennae. I plucked them out, making my eyes water. When I waved my hands near my nose I got a distinct oniony whiff. Despite having a bath and washing my hands umpteen times I just couldn’t rid myself of the smell today. It was impossible to achieve glamour in my line of work. Pathetic, I thought. Take away the possibility of a shag in the near future and I go completely to seed.

It was at times like this that I envied the people with nine to five office jobs. Many of my customers were young professionals, enjoying a day of shopping and relaxation before a big night out. Today I had longed to swap places with one, and then I might have felt more like a party.

It was strange that the reason I had decided to be my own boss was to avoid the usual office scenario; it had never appealed to me. Yet now I was succeeding as my own boss I had a nagging feeling every other woman had a better and more fulfilling job than I did. If you go by what you read in magazines, the average woman, like a number of my old school friends, was climbing a corporate ladder, holding her own in a man’s world, yet managing to maintain her femininity. She would usually work in London and live in a Notting Hill-trendy yet fashionably shabby-type suburb. She’d wear Pied à Terre shoes, eat Prêt à Manger sandwiches, shop in Tesco Metro and be forever on the Net or mobile in an office with a padded swivel chair. She’d have holiday pay, a pension and lovely Christmas bonuses and office parties. She wouldn’t be forced to wear practical casuals that are well washed from continual food spattering and sensible flat shoes so her feet aren’t aching after a whole day with barely any time to sit down. She wouldn’t spend hours washing bugs off organic calabrese, wiping tables and be constantly negotiating (begging) with a rather frightening bank manager.

I inwardly chastised myself for being so negative and made a brave attempt to pull myself together. Sorting through the garments slung haphazardly on the bed, I picked out my favourite cropped black trousers and a blue vest top a. . .