"Claire!" said Mum in exasperation, "'will you just bloody well go!"

"Fine, fine," I said, quickly checking that the baby intercom was switched on, "I'm going,"

"Have a nice time," called Mum.

"I'll try," I said, bottom lip trembling.

The drive into town was nightmarish.

Did you know that if you listen hard enough everything sounds like a baby crying? The wind in the trees, the rain on the roof of the car, the hum of the engine.

I was convinced that I could hear Kate crying for me, al-

144

ways faintly, nearly out of earshot. It was unbearable, and I very nearly turned the car around and went back home.

If it wasn't for Common Sense making a guest appearance in my head, that's probably exactly what I would have done.

"You're being ridiculous," said Common Sense.

"You're obviously not a mother yourself," I retorted.

"No," admitted Common Sense, "I'm not. But you've got to realize that you can't be with her every moment for the rest of her life. What about when you go back to work and she has to go to day care? Well, how are you going to cope then? Just think of this as good practice."

"You're right," I sighed, calming down for a moment. Then panic gripped me again. What if she died? What if she died that night?

Just then, like an oasis in the desert, I spotted a pay phone. I swung the car over, much to the annoyance of the drivers behind me, beeping their horns and shouting things at me, the heartless bastards.

"Mum," I said tremulously.

"Who's this?" she asked.

"It's me," I said, feeling as if I was going to burst into tears.

"Claire?" she said, sounding outraged. "What the hell do you want?"

"Has anything happened to Kate?" I asked breathlessly.

"Claire! Stop this! Kate is absolutely fine."

"Really?" I asked, hardly daring to believe it.

"Really," she said in a nicer voice. "Look, this does get easier, you know. The first time is the worst. Now go and enjoy yourself and I promise that I'll call you if anything happens."

"Thanks, Mum," I said, feeling a lot better.

I got back into the car and drove into town and parked the car (yes, in a parking lot) and went down to the pub to meet Laura. She was already there when I arrived, and it was wonderful to see her. I hadn't seen her in months.

I told her she looked lovely, because she did. She told me that I looked lovely. Although I'm not sure whether I did or not.

She said that she looked like an old hag.

I said that I looked like a dog.

I said that she didn't look like an old hag.

145

She said that I didn't look like a dog.

Pleasantries over, I went to get us some drinks.

There were several million people in the pub. Or at least that was how it felt. But Laura and I were lucky enough to get seats.

I suppose I must be getting old. There was a time when I would have cheerfully stood, pint in hand, in the midst of all these people, being swept along like seaweed in the tide. Not minding that the person I was supposed to be talking to was now several yards away and that most of my wine was spilled on my wrist.

Laura wanted to know all about Kate. And I was only too happy to tell her.

When I was younger I'd promised myself that I would never turn into a baby-bore. You know, the kind of people who go on and on about their baby and how she smiled at them for the first time today and how beautiful she is and all that, while all around them people are twitching and going into spasms of boredom. And I was a bit alarmed to find that that's exactly what I was doing. But I couldn't help it. It was different when it was your own baby. The only thing I can say in my defense is that when you have one yourself you'll know what I mean.

Maybe Laura was bored out of her skull, but she did a very decent im- pression of being interested in Kate.

"I'm dying to see her," she said. Gamely, I thought.

"Why don't you come out this weekend?" I said. "We'll spend an after- noon together and you can play with her."

And then Laura wanted to know what giving birth was like. So we dis- cussed that in gory detail for a while. Laura started to look a bit sweaty and faint.

And then, of course, we moved onto the main item on the agenda. The real business of the evening. The main feature. The star act.

James.

James Webster, the Incredible Disappearing Husband.

Laura had all the details already.

From a variety of sources--my mother, Judy and a lot of other friends. So she didn't really need to know what had

146

happened. She was more interested in how I was now and what I was planning to do.

"I don't know, Laura," I told her. "I don't know whether I'll go back to London or whether I'll stay here. I don't know what to do about my apartment. I don't really know what to do about anything."

"You'll really have to talk to James," she told me.

"Oh, don't I know it," I said. Slightly bitterly, I must admit.

So we discussed my responsibilities for a while. And we hazarded guesses as to what my future was going to be like.

Then I got a bit distressed talking about that, so I changed the subject and asked Laura who she was currently having sex with. It was much more entertaining talking about that, let me tell you, especially as it turned out that the lucky recipient of Laura's current sexual favors was a nineteen- year-old art student.

"Nineteen!" I shrieked, at a decibel level that caused glasses to shatter in the hands of several startled drinkers in a pub about half a mile away. "Nineteen! Are you serious?"

"Yes." She laughed. "But it's a disaster really. He never has a penny so all we can afford to do is have sex."

"But couldn't you pay for the two of you to go out?" I asked.

"I could, I suppose," she said. "But I'd be too ashamed to bring him anywhere."

"Is he always covered in paint?" I asked.

"He is," she said. "But it's not just that. He seems to have only one sweater. And no socks. And the less said about his jocks, the better."

"Ugh," I said. "That sounds awful."

"Ah no, it's not really," Laura assured me. "He's crazy about me. He thinks I'm gorgeous. And my ego could do with it."