OMG Baby!

by Emma Garcia

Genres: Satire; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

‘Fans of Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk, meet Emma Garcia. Vivienne Summers may very well become your next favourite heroine and the one you will want to keep visiting over and over.’ Good Books and a Cup of Tea This ISN'T a book about babies... It IS about two people, one unexpected pregnancy and a question… Viv and Max were best friends for years, then they were lovers and then it all went terribly wrong. Now finally they are to be reunited. Viv feels sick. Not just with nerves at seeing the gorgeous Max again, but because there's a small chance she might quite possibly… most definitely… be pregnant. It's thrilling. But also terrifying. At thirty-two Viv doesn’t have a job, only eats fruit when there’s nothing else, and can barely meet the needs of her foster cat. And whilst she knows that Max is the love of her life, they don’t exactly have the most stable relationship… Then, as Viv's long-lost mother reappears on the scene and they all end up sharing an apartment, all hell breaks loose. HOW ON EARTH ARE THEY GOING TO COPE? OMG Baby! is the hilarious, cringe-worthy and touching sequel to Never Google Heartbreak. What people are saying about Emma Garcia ‘This book picks up where Garcia's brilliant debut Never Google Heartbreak left off and it's great to catch up with Viv and Max. Garcia's ingenious wit and characterisation once again shine through... Another laugh-out-loud read from a hugely talented writer. Chick Lit Club ‘Her cracking pace and rapier wit, together with her robust and honest prose will be bound to win Emma Garcia a sackful of fans. Perfect for lovers of Bridesmaids and Caitlin Moran.’ Red Magazine ‘To say that this book was eagerly awaited is an absolute understatement. Following on from NEVER GOOGLE HEARTBREAK, OMG Baby! reconnects us with Viv and Max in all their fabulously sarcastic glory. The chemistry between these two characters is not only believable but so captivating. Viv and Max have the makings of a married couple but will they ever get that far?’ A Page of Love

Release date: June 3, 2014

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 449

Sample

Google search: Am I pregnant?

Classic symptoms of pregnancy

Missed period. This is the earliest and most reliable sign if you have a regular monthly cycle.

Feeling tired. You may feel unusually tired in the first few weeks of pregnancy.

Feeling sick. You may start feeling sick, and even vomit, between about the second and eighth week of pregnancy.

Changes in your breasts. You may notice your breasts getting larger, feeling tender or tingling in the early weeks of pregnancy.

Mood swings and stress. You may feel rapid changes in mood in the early stages of pregnancy, and even start to cry sometimes, without knowing why.

Changing tastes in food. You may find you go off certain things, like tea, coffee or fatty food. Some women also feel cravings for types of food they don’t usually like.

‘I am not pregnant,’ I say this and duck behind the laptop screen and scroll down the list again. For a start, my period is reliably random, but I know it will be coming any day because my boobs hurt. I’m not sick – just had a double-shot coffee. I love fatty food . . . ‘God, what a relief,’ I sigh aloud, and then burst into tears. Now, where can I get a rollmop herring in this airport?

I wipe my eyes and shut down the search. ‘No symptoms,’ I whisper. Then do a double fist pump and begin to pack away the computer. Just then a knowing voice starts up in my head, sounding something like an angel from a film.

‘YOU! Yes you, Vivienne Summers are with child,’ it booms, ‘and you know you are.’

I sit bolt upright. Let’s just remain calm and think back over the last two months. It is true that for most July I had a lot of sex with a guy named Max. It’s also true that I didn’t actually personally put a condom on him, but I think I definitely saw one, on the floor. The fact is, at the time I was a broken-hearted husk of a person and didn’t care what happened to me so long as I stopped feeling bad, and although I didn’t know it at the time, I was distracted by falling in love with Max. I threw myself into the hands of Fate. Irresponsible, careless, I know. But, God, it was good.

Anyhoo . . .

Now I’m about to board a flight to Spain. I’m on the way to see Max again and I can’t deal with a pregnancy situation. I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to have a lovely little baby one day, one of those good, fat, smiley ones, and sooner rather than later, what with the ‘fertility cliff at thirty-five’ thing looming, but I’m only thirty-two. I don’t have a secure job, or any job. I have none of the trappings of adulthood: don’t own a home, have no concrete relationship and am not at all sensible. I can barely meet the needs of my foster cat. I’m not even that healthy: I only eat fruit when there’s nothing else, and I drink too much. Recently I’ve been drinking a lot. If I’m pregnant, I could have pickled the baby. It could be a misshapen thing with teeth and hair in the wrong places. I imagine doctors telling me it can’t survive and me stoically arguing and feeding the twisted ball with a teat pipette and dressing it up with a jaunty little hat with something like ‘Cool guy’ written on; people on the street saying, ‘Oh, a baby!’ then recoiling from the pram, hands clutching at their throats, gasping, ‘What’s wrong with that baby?’

Oh my God. I get up and jerkily walk around the airport in a panic. I march into the duty-free shop and try some eyeshadow testers to distract myself. I contemplate getting one of those big bricks of cigarettes, even though I don’t smoke, just to have them, just to rebel.

‘Not those!’ the angel voice hisses.

I examine my tummy. OK, so it’s bloated, but that’ll be that water retention. A lot of people get it – ankles like balloons, some of them. I stand frozen by a mountain of Marlboro Reds.

Look, the thing to remember is, I’ll be back in London next week, because I am to be best woman at my friend Lucy’s wedding, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to ensnare Max and drag him home with me. If there is anything to deal with (which there isn’t), I’ll deal with it then. Good. Sorted.

‘Get chocolate now,’ says the voice, and I feel a powerful lust for Toblerone.

Google search: Nausea

Common causes of nausea and vomiting

pregnancy

motion sickness

food poisoning

gastroenteritis

alcohol or drug abuse

A quick search while our plane taxis into Girona. Very reassuring. We experienced a lot of turbulence on the flight and I ate a family-sized Toblerone. Anyone would be nauseous after that.

‘That and being pregnant—’

‘Nerves,’ I interrupt the voice aloud, and the woman jammed up next to me turns and smiles. ‘I’m meeting someone,’ I tell her. ‘Max Kelly. I love him. You probably know about my public search for him using Facebook? I was on the radio? The “Où est Max?” T-shirts that were sold in Top Shop? That was me,’ I say, making my voice higher at the end of each question. Her eyebrows raise to say, ‘Oh,’ while her eyes say, ‘You are unsavoury.’ I turn away from her and gaze out of the window, my thoughts freewheeling. The airport is flanked with green. I’d pictured brown desert. I’m about to see him again. The horizon trembles in the heat. My heart clatters in my ears. He’s here. I think of us: laughing until we cry, telling stories, holding hands, his face the last time. I never want him to look at me that way again, and he won’t, because this time I won’t betray him by turning up to his art exhibition with another man. This time I’ll make him happy instead and bring him back to London.

The small airport smells of coffee and pastries. There’s a lot of jostling for position at the baggage reclaim, followed by the embarrassment of having to pick up Nana’s 1980s suitcases, and a snaking back on itself queue at passport control. I spot a woman checking out my new cool man sandals, which are a lot like Jesus might have worn. I see she wants them. She’s pointing them out to her friend. Hold on – why are they laughing? And then my heart throbs painfully because I’m through, out into a tangle of people, searching all of the faces for Max. Just a guy; he’s just a guy, just a guy; he’s just a guy, I repeat to myself with the slap of my sandals.

Then I see him and I have to try and control the burning rush of blood. I have to contain an outburst of joy. He’s taller; he seems huge. His dark brown hair’s all long and messy and sun kissed; he’s grown a beard. His skin is a dirty nut brown, his big feet in blue flip-flops. He wears jeans, unevenly cut off round the knee, showing hairy legs, and a faded orange T-shirt, slightly tight across the shoulders. He smiles, a flash of white teeth. Suddenly my whole body goes weak. I’m gawky, shy, awkward and almost pretend I’ve forgotten something and run off to the left. I don’t know how to be so I just stand there as he begins to walk over. I look at my feet, to the side, then back at him. I don’t know what to do with my face or my hands; I swing my hands against my legs. And now he’s standing in front of me.

‘Hello,’ he says casually.

I feel my bottom lip tremble.

‘I’m here.’ is all I can say.

‘You are. That’s good.’

I can’t say more for the ball of emotion in my throat. He reaches out to stroke my arm.

‘Glad you could come,’ he says softly.

I swallow and nod and study his chest, thinking of grabbing him by the back of the neck and saying, ‘I love you,’ repeatedly into his hair, but chickening out.

He pulls me in and squeezes and a huge sob escapes me. ‘Hey . . . don’t cry!’ he half laughs. ‘What, do I look that bad?’

‘The beard’s a bit of a shock, that’s all,’ I manage to pull myself together.

He laughs good-naturedly and takes a step back to look me over.

‘You look good. I like your sandals, very practical,’ he says.

‘Thanks.’

So we stand looking at each other, and he’s even hotter than my memory allowed. His eyes are beautiful – full of affection and amusement. I’m not good when faced with beauty so I give him a punch on the shoulder.

‘That’s for disappearing.’

He presses his lips together, nodding, shoves both hands in his pockets and bends his face near to mine. I smell tobacco and mint on his breath. I look at his mouth, and when he kisses me, the beard feels soft and not at all how I thought a beard would feel. The kiss is long and slow, and I have to break off because of my weak knees.

‘I did miss you actually,’ I tell him.

‘I really missed you,’ he says.

‘Buy me a drink?’

‘Sure.’

We don’t move. We’re just looking at each other and grinning like goons. The arrivals hall is almost empty.

Max looks back over to my forlorn trolley. ‘That all yours?’

‘My capsule wardrobe. I hope you haven’t come on the bike.’

‘Borrowed a van.’

He puts an arm round my shoulders and we stroll out into the afternoon sunshine, each pulling a faux-leather suitcase.

In the far corner of the car park is a battered Citroën van. Inside, it is completely covered with a fine white powder. Max wipes my seat a bit with his hand. I put on the seat belt, releasing more clouds of white dust, as he battles with the engine. It coughs and dies a few times before it catches and we eventually trundle away. I watch his bare foot pumping the accelerator at a junction to keep the straining engine going. Something metal is banging and rolling about in the back.

‘Well, this is nice,’ I shout above the din.

‘Ha! Only the best for you, my darlin’!’ He winds down the window and shouts, ‘She’s here! She flew to Spain to have sex! With me!’

‘How do you know I’m going to have sex with you?’

‘Well, are you or aren’t you?’ He brakes abruptly and gives me a flash of his pirate smile and, God, I can’t wait.

‘Where the hell did you get this van?’

‘Ah, it belongs to a mate of mine. He’s a sculptor. I think all this stuff is plaster dust. His tools are in the back.’

‘Not cocaine, then?’

‘Actually, it is! I decided to pick you up in a fucking coke van! I’m Scarface!’ he shouts, and we laugh. ‘Hey, Viv, you’re here!’ He grins as he accelerates onto a dual carriageway. Then he turns and winks. I feel it like a strike on the chest.

On the long straight road he drives with one hand on the wheel and the other on my leg. The touch of his fingers on my bare skin is driving me crazy. I wonder if we could pull over and do it in the back of the van, plaster dust or no.

I make myself look away. The pure bright sunshine washes the roadside sprawl of boatyards, pottery shops and fruit warehouses. Fields roll away to the left, laden vines like thrusting hands. We’re driving through a bowl of green, serrated mountains piled on all sides like jagged dog’s teeth and the huge wide, billowing blue sky stretching over us. The kind of sky that makes your insides fly out and shout, ‘Yahoo!’

‘So, we’re heading up the coast. Do you see those mountains there?’ He nods towards the horizon, shards of rock trailing wisps of cloud. ‘I live on the other side of them, in Cadaqués. That town there is Roses.’ He points to the variegated flank of a mountain sloping to the coast, studded with white houses like stars.

‘You’ve been here the whole time?’

‘This area around and about.’

‘Where I could never find you?’

‘But I couldn’t shake you off.’ He takes a half-smoked roll-up from the ashtray and lights it, smiling sideways at me.

‘Meanwhile, back in London, I was publicly dissecting my own heart.’

‘I never knew that,’ he says, narrowing his eyes against the cigarette smoke and winding down the window.

I’m no mechanic, but I’d say we’re about to lose our exhaust pipe, going by the terrible thudding and scraping of metal. Max seems oblivious I have to shout to be heard.

‘It’s all very civilised. I kind of pictured you living with goatherds in the mountains.’

‘No goatherds here. That’s Greece you’re thinking of.’

‘I thought you’d be herding something.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you were incommunicado. There is a phone signal here, you know. I have signal.’

‘Ah, but I threw my phone in the river before I left.’

‘Oh, nice one.’ I imagine his phone resting in the murky-green bed of the Thames, next to a severed head.

‘Stupid. Regretted it straight away,’ he says.

‘Well, it was working for ages. I left a million messages.’

‘Technology is a wonder.’

I swallow down a wave of nausea. We’re climbing on a very winding road. Travel sickness is a curse. I’ve never had it before. ‘So why did you even bother to log on?’

He sighs, resting an elbow on the windowsill.

‘Well, there I was walking down by the sea one day and it struck me: you were on my mind all the time.’ He taps the side of his head with his fingertips. ‘It was like you were haunting me. I couldn’t get you out of my head. I kept imagining what you’d think of things and what you’d say, and I thought, Fuck it. Just get in touch with the witch, confirm what an evil piece of work she is and cut her from your heart once and for all.’ He shouts this above the exhaust. He grins.

‘Nice.’

‘Then I turned to walk back into the town to the internet café and – no word of a lie – there’s a woman walking along with a T-shirt on her, and as she turned the corner, a shaft of sunlight hit the T-shirt and I saw across it was written, “Où est Max?” Well, it was a sign. I ran up to her like a wild man and asked her where she got the T-shirt.’

‘You never told me that on the phone.’

‘And she said she’d only tell me after I’d made mad, passionate love to her, which I did –’ he sneaks a glance across at me ‘– for hours. She was insatiable.’

I wrinkle my nose.

‘And when she had to stop, on account of hunger, thirst and a nasty cramp in her hip, we shared a spliff and she told me the whole story about a funny-looking woman searching for her lost love named Max and how romantic it all was, with the Facebook and everything.’

‘Is any part of that true?’

‘No.’ He throws back his head and laughs loudly. ‘I went to the internet café and Googled you.’

We don’t seem to have climbed for long, but the ground falls away at the side of the road now, a steep drop into dark stands of trees. A scent of rosemary and thyme fills the van. The engine whines as Max changes down a gear.

‘Nana got married. I wish you could have seen it.’

‘Yeah . . . Is she OK, the old girl?’

‘She is on a bloody gap year. Travelling round the world for a whole year with Reg. Europe at the moment. Sends silly postcards.’

‘Brilliant.’ He smiles. ‘And what did you do with Dave?’

I think of Dave being shut in his cage at the cattery, the seething hatred in his eyes as I handed over his fish-shaped ‘Top Cat’ bowl.

‘The cat you abandoned? In a cattery. You owe me about three hundred pounds and a silk kimono. Shredding is one of his great talents.’

‘Three hundred quid? How long is he in for?’

‘A week.’

He flinches as if he’s been hit in the face. ‘A week? One week?’

‘It’s a very luxurious cattery, with heated beanbags and caviar extract.’

‘Caviar!’

‘Extract. Probably just the lips and tails of the actual caviar.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then I suppose I’ll pick him up – or we will.’

‘You’re only staying a week.’ He frowns and bites the side of his thumb.

I hang on to the leather strap above the passenger door as we make a turn and suddenly the road snakes left, with a sheer drop to one side. My stomach heaves I concentrate on looking ahead.

‘I thought you’d stay longer.’

‘I would, but Lucy’s getting married.’

‘She’s getting married?’

‘You’re invited. You could escort me.’

‘No way. Not after the last wedding debacle. You’re a liability.’

‘Actually you’ll have to. She’s gone mad. She’s making me do a terrible dance routine involving a pole and lesbian frotting.’

He smirks. ‘What’ll you be wearing?’

‘A tutu.’

He shakes his head and smiles. ‘Well, that’s funny right there,’ he says.

Ways to say you’re having a baby

up the duff

up the stick

knocked up

one in the oven,

bun in the oven

expecting

with child

preggers

experiencing birth-control failure

We descend into Cadaqués and it isn’t the rocky herdsman’s outpost in the wilderness I’d imagined, rather it’s a stunning, arty fishing village. As the road snakes lower, I look back through the trees at the town; it clings to the land between the obscene roll of two mountains, a white jostle of buildings like washed-up paper. I see why Max chose to stay here; the narrow streets of the old quarter are packed with little galleries and studios. So what I need to do, is make him fall deeply in love with me again, make him so in love that he’s willing to return to the scruffy arse end of London and live in a bedsit with me. I’m a resourceful girl, but I have to say it’s looking like a challenge. We park the van and climb some steps to a tall whitewashed building. I hope it’s not much further: I’m hot and tired, and one of my sandals is beginning to rub on my heel.

‘Here we are.’ Max unlocks a heavy door. He grabs the bags and steps into the darkness, while I hesitate. He clatters about inside, battling with the shutters of two huge windows. Rectangles of sunlight spill over the stone floor. ‘Come in,’ he says over his shoulder.

I follow him into the cool room. White breezeblock walls with various canvases and half-finished paintings propped against them. A shelf made from old crates crowded with jars and paint and brushes. Piles of papers and books and a huge ironwork bed with bricks for legs. There’s a bent wooden chair and a chipped anglepoise lamp balanced beside an overflowing ashtray. The kitchen alcove is a cupboard, with an ancient fridge and an encrusted stovetop. To one side of the space, a faded green fabric panel is slung behind a giant old hook, sectioning off a small sink, a toilet and a showerhead, hanging over a sloping little drain. The place has a tomb-like smell of old wet stone.

Max runs a hand through his hair. ‘Er, welcome . . . Make yourself at home . . . Sit anywhere,’ he says, waving his hand around as if there’s a three-piece suite and assorted armchairs.

I put my handbag on the bed.

‘Well, I love what you’ve done with the place.’

‘I was going for minimalist.’

‘You’ve achieved it.’

‘Would you like a large drink?’

‘This is where you’ve been living.’ I sit on the bed.

He doesn’t answer. It seems as if he hasn’t heard. He’s just watching me intently. I’m left grinning, grappling for another line.

‘It’s very neat, though, in here . . . Not like you, really.’

He walks towards me and kneels between my knees, but he isn’t smiling. He strokes my cheek, holds my chin. I move my eyes side to side jokily. His eyes seem almost black under the dark frown of his brow.

‘Vivienne,’ he says.

‘Hello!’

‘Don’t fuck with me. It can’t be like before.’

I open my mouth to speak but think better of it and try to touch his face, but he jerks his chin away and grabs my hand.

‘I want you, but only if you want me. If you have doubts, just get on the next plane home – no hard feelings. I don’t want pity or to be friends.’

‘I won’t hurt you again. I just want to love you.’ His mouth is close to mine. I listen to our breath. Feel our lips brush. ‘As soon as possible.’

Then he kisses me and I move my hand up into his hair, feeling something like panic, an almost painful heart-thumping crashing in my ears; my arms go weak.

‘Lie down,’ he says quietly.

I flop back on the bed without taking my eyes off his face. He’s kneeling between my legs. I see a tiny movement in his neck as he swallows. Then he takes off my pants. His face serious and his eyes dark. He pulls off his T-shirt and unbuckles his jeans with one hand. I feel the other everywhere: on my breasts, my belly and then between my legs, stroking and inside me. I see him for a moment kneeling over me, the bulk of him, his wide shoulders filling the window. Outside, I hear a shout, but all is quiet in the room except for our breathing and the rustle of the sheets as we move. I try to wrap my legs round him, but he pushes them down.

I feel the weight of him pinning me down. I look sideways at his tanned arm and feel his mouth against my ear.

‘Vivienne,’ he sighs. His fingers move on me. ‘I’ve been dying for you,’ he whispers, as he pushes into me, and I feel my body pulling him in.

Afterwards I’m lying half on him, my head resting on his armpit, thinking, If I died now, it would be OK. I’ve lived a good life. I’ve known passion, bitten into some lovely things, tried to be nice to most people most of the time . . . Then I want to throw up. My mouth feels dangerously watery. I look towards the unscreened toilet and imagine suddenly having to puke there, naked apart from my sandals. That can’t happen.

‘Would you like a vodka?’ Max asks lazily.

I tilt my head back to look at him. ‘Something fizzy.’

‘I could go and get something.’

He shifts his body and slightly presses against my chest, making my boobs hurt. I turn onto my side.

‘Will I go?’ he asks.

‘We’ll both go, in a minute,’ I tell him, curling into the recovery position, too weak to leave the bed.

He puts his arm round me, stroking my bicep with his rough fingertips over and over.

‘You’re so beautiful, Viv,’ he says. ‘I have wanked so many times thinking of you.’

‘God, that’s really sweet.’ I bat his hand away; he moves it onto my bottom.

We lie there in silence. His eyes begin to close. I take deep breaths against the nausea. It comes in waves, insistent.

Oh shit, I’m pregnant. I am pregnant. I lift the sheet and look down at my body. My nipples look weird. I bite my lower lip, thinking, my heart filling with terror and maybe a faint twinge of excitement. I’m not. I can’t be. A brief moment of relief before the angel voice, now preceded by some sort of harp twang, sings, ‘You know the truth.’ This is making me panic. I’m pregnant and hearing voices.

Max gently snores. I whack him awake.

‘So, what about Lucy getting married?’ I ask loudly.

He smiles, eyes still closed. ‘She’s the last person I’d expect.’

‘Why?’

‘Remember her at uni going on about the patriarchy? She’s anti-commitment.’

‘People change. She’s very pro-commitment now. Well, pro- with one man in particular.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Reuben. Colombian.’

‘Ah.’

‘He’s sexy, into toys.’

‘Good on her.’

‘Yes, good on her. She’ll be pregnant next, I suppose.’ I glance at his face.

He opens one eye. ‘Guess so.’

‘Imagine that. Lucy, a mum.’

‘I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.’

‘Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a parent?’

‘Nope. I know. Terrible. Not a moment’s peace.’

‘What? How do you know?’

‘Growing up in my family, hundreds of kids always running around . . . chaos.’

‘So you don’t want kids?’ I ask, and he lifts his head a little to peer at me suspiciously.

‘We’re talking hypothetically here?’

‘Course.’

He flops back, laughing nervously, sensing a trap.

‘Your answer, please . . . Do you or do you not want kids?’

‘Well, hypothetically I always thought I don’t.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because of the planet.’

‘Because of the planet?’

‘Yeah, like the population is too large already,’ he says, gazing dreamily at the ceiling without a care in the world.

‘You don’t want kids because of the planet.’ Of all the answers! He’s suddenly become a green warrior? He laughed when I said I wanted to live in one of those eco cave houses for the good of the planet. What an annoying hypocrite he is! I stand up and pace, wearing nothing but my sandals and a frown. ‘Well, that’s a bit of a deal-breaker, don’t you think?’

‘Huh?’ He sits up, leaning on an elbow.

‘You shouldn’t go shagging thirty-something women, then, should you?’ I snap. Bits of spit fly.

‘Viv, what are you on about?’

‘The planet! I thought you were a Catholic?’

‘Lapsed . . . Nice muff, by the way.’

‘Thanks. Well, other Catholics have loads of kids – in drawers.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. Because they have so many that they just don’t have enough room or beds or cots! I saw that on a documentary where a woman had twelve kids and that was in Ireland!’ I jab a finger at him. I’ve won. How can he come back on that? He makes a confused/aghast noise.

‘What are you saying? Do you want kids?’ He kneels up now.

‘Yes! No. I’m talking about principles!’ I say, jutting my head at him like a chicken. ‘It’s all very well going environmental, banging on about the planet, growing a big fucking beard and shagging women left and right with no care for the consequences!’

He actually laughs out loud and I nearly do t. . .