I Owe You One (Page 40)

“Well, it will be, I guess,” says Hannah, sounding upset. “But won’t it be worth it?”

“Er … I suppose so.” I bite my lip, remembering Tim’s beleaguered look. “By the way, what’s Le Mahs?”

“What?”

“Le Mahs. Or La Mars.”

“Oh, Lamaze,” says Hannah. “It’s, like, a baby system. There are Lamaze births, Lamaze toys …”

“Right. And who’s Annabel Karmel?”

“She’s the baby-puree guru,” says Hannah at once. “You need to start at six months. Ice-cube trays.”

OK, the gibberish has started again. Ice-cube trays? What’s she on about?

“Hannah,” I say carefully. “You’re not even pregnant. Why are you talking about what happens when the baby’s six months old?”

“I’m thinking ahead,” she says, as though it’s perfectly obvious. “You have to be prepared.”

“You don’t have to be that prepared. Shouldn’t you cross each bridge as you come to it?”

“No.” Hannah shakes her head adamantly. “You have to plan. You have to research. You have to start your to-do lists.”

To-do lists? Plural?

“How many lists do you have?” I ask lightly.

“Seven.”

“Seven?” I drop my coffee mug down on the table with a crash. “Hannah, you cannot have seven to-do lists for a baby that hasn’t been conceived yet! It’s insane!”

“It’s not insane!” she says defensively. “You know I like to get everything in order.”

“Show them to me,” I demand. “I want to see.”

“Fine,” says Hannah, after a pause. “They’re upstairs.”

I follow her upstairs, along her immaculate landing, to the room that I’ve always assumed will be the nursery. We enter, and my hand goes to my mouth. Oh my God.

It looks like the control center of some crime inquiry. There’s a massive pinboard on the wall, covered with file cards on which I see phrases like Research baby yoga and Second name if it’s a boy and Investigate epidural risks. Next to it are blu-tacked three dense typed-out lists, the first headed, Postpartum—to-do, the second, Education—to-do, the third, Health checks/issues—to-do.

“I mean, the main lists are on the computer,” says Hannah as she switches on the light. “This is extra stuff.”

“The main lists are … on the computer?” I echo faintly.

No wonder Tim feels overwhelmed. I feel overwhelmed. I don’t know anything about having babies, but this can’t be right.

“Hannah,” I begin—then stop, because I don’t know how to proceed. “Hannah … Why?”

“Why what?” she retorts in a snappy way that isn’t her, and I know that at last I’ve got under her skin. I take her hands and hold them firmly in mine, waiting until she meets my eye. She looks tired. And stressed. My strong, calm, super-brain friend looks vulnerable, I realize. When did she last laugh?

“Have you made to-do lists for up until the baby leaves home?” I say in gentle, teasing tones. “Have you worked out every family holiday you’ll take?” I give a sudden overdramatic gasp. “Oh my God, where will you hold its eighteenth-birthday party? Quick! Let’s google venues!”

A tinge of color comes to Hannah’s cheeks.

“You know I like breaking things down into tasks,” she mutters.

“I know you do.” I nod. “You’re kind of addicted to it.”

“I’m not addicted.” Hannah looks scandalized at the word. I can practically see her thoughts: I’m a professional woman with furniture from John Lewis! How can I be an addict?

“You kind of are,” I say, undeterred. “And this is not good for you. It’s not good for Tim.” I let go of her hands as I gesture around. “And it’s certainly not good for the baby, because at this rate, the baby’s never going to get born!”

“It’s just … challenging.” Hannah sinks down onto the bed, looking worn out. “I don’t know how people do it.”

“They’ve been doing it for centuries,” I say, sinking down beside her. “They didn’t have to-do lists in caveman times, did they?”

“They probably did,” returns Hannah, her eyes glinting. “Cave drawings are probably all to-do lists. Pick up supper. Kill mammoth. Make bearskin.”

I grin back and for a moment we’re quiet. Then I look up.

“Hannah, do you actually know anyone with a baby?”

“Well … not really,” admits Hannah after a pause. “I mean, a couple of people at work have had them. I held one once.”

“You held one baby once?” I say incredulously. “That’s it? So where did you get all this from?” I wave at the file cards.

“Online. And books. It is on my to-do list to meet real mums,” she adds defensively.

“OK,” I say. “Well, Nicole has a million friends with babies. Why don’t you meet one and ask her what it’s like? Maybe Tim could come along too. And you could both think about having an actual baby, instead of a to-do list.”

“Yes,” says Hannah. She heaves a heavy sigh and I can see her eyes traveling about the little room as though seeing it for the first time. “Yes. That would be good. That would be great, in fact. Thanks, Fixie. I’ll call Nicole.”

“I can talk to her,” I volunteer. “If that’s easier?”

“No, I’ll do it,” says Hannah, as I knew she would, because she’s like me—she does things for herself.

“Come here.” I pull her in for a hug. “I want you to relax. Both you and Tim. And you will.”

“What about you?” asks Hannah as we eventually draw apart. “I haven’t even asked about—”

“Oh, you know,” I cut her off hurriedly. “Nothing to see. All over.”

It’s nearly two weeks since that mortifying night at 6 Folds Place. I haven’t seen Jake or Leila since the morning after and I certainly haven’t heard anything from Ryan.

“Well, you know what I think,” says Hannah. And I nod because I do, and we’ve said it all, both of us.

—

I know Tim’s on his way home from work and I suspect Hannah wants to have a long talk with him, so I don’t stay for supper, even though she offers. As I step outside her front door, the air is so freezing, I gasp. It’s the coldest October on record and they’re talking about snow.

Greg loves it. He kept going outside today to survey the gray sky knowingly and using the word Snowpocalypse. I had to turn down suggestions from him that Farrs should stock balaclavas, sleds, and urine bottles (urine bottles?) from some activewear catalog that he adores.

“People are going to need this stuff,” he said about twenty times. “You wait.”

The more he pestered me, the firmer my resolve became: I am never, ever stocking a urine bottle. I don’t care if it is the Snowpocalypse. I don’t care if they were used on a genuine polar expedition, I don’t want to know.

(I must admit, I did wonder: What about girls? And I would have asked Greg, except he would have given me some frank and terrible answer which would have lodged in my brain forever.)

I walk briskly through the streets of Hammersmith and I’m nearing the tube station when I get an incoming call from Drew. I haven’t heard from him for a while.

“Drew!” I exclaim. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, thanks,” he says, sounding preoccupied. “Is Nicole with you, by any chance?”

“No,” I say in surprise.

“It’s just that I keep trying her phone, but she’s not picking up.”

“Oh,” I say warily. “Well, maybe her phone’s broken or something.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe.” Drew exhales and there’s a short silence. Quite an expensive silence, I can’t help thinking, what with him being in Abu Dhabi.

“Drew,” I venture, “is everything OK?”

“Well, not really,” says Drew heavily. “Here’s the thing. Nicole keeps saying she’ll come out and visit me here in Abu Dhabi. She promises she’ll get a flight. But then she doesn’t. Has she mentioned it to you at all?”

“No,” I admit. “But then, we don’t talk that much.”

“I know she’s really busy, being the face of Farrs and doing her yoga and all that,” he says. “And I respect that, Fixie, I do. I’m proud of her. But when I first came out here, we planned that she’d come over soon for a visit. Well, that was months ago!”

“Maybe she’s making plans I don’t know about,” I say evasively.

“Fair enough.” He sighs. “Well, sorry to bother you.”

He rings off and I walk for a while, my brow crinkled. Nicole’s never even mentioned going to Abu Dhabi. Which is pretty weird, now I think about it. Why wouldn’t she go and visit her own husband who she misses so much?

I’m just reminding myself that other people’s relationships are a mystery and there’s no point speculating about them, when my phone bleeps with a text. I look down, expecting it to be Hannah or maybe Drew again—but it’s from him. Seb. And it’s just one word: