Page 46 of Two Wrongs
‘And it’ll be thanks I’ll be getting. I won’t need to tell her ‘cause it won’t be long before she guesses herself. You know, Fin only rang ahead because she’s worried about you. She doesn’t want you feeling as though you’re alone. Given what she’s just gone through herself, you know she’s right. Whatever you decide, we—your friends— are here for you in whatever shape or form you need. Even if y’don’t think y’need us at all.’
This is a variation of exactly what Fin had said right after I’d told her this... situation I’m in was the result of a one-night stand while in LA. I’d felt wretched as she’d said that nothing good could come from trying to deal with this alone; that secrets weren’t healthy. That they damage.
Like I don’t already know that.
Like I’m not the queen of keeping secrets myself.
Not that I’ll be able to keep this bad boy—girl?—a secret indefinitely.
‘I’m keeping it.’ I don’t know what makes me say this. I’ve thought of anythingbutmy current predicament on the train journey back home. But this, this is instinctual, and as the words dissipate in the air between us, I realise they’re true.
‘Okay.’ Nat’s reply is without a flicker of surprise or mistrust. ‘We all just want what’s best for you, and unless you’ve braved the buffet cart on the way up, best thing for you now is to get something solid inside you. And I don’t mean theDbecause, clearly, you’ve already had that.Andkept the news to yourself.’ She pouts comically; one eyebrow curled like a question mark.
‘I’m not hungry.’ I’m not anything but metallic-y mouthed and empty. ‘And no comment.’
‘Piss off!’ She barks out a laugh. ‘You did the dirty over in the States and didn’t share? You know that’s not how this works.’
I purse my lips and blow out a burst of air.
‘Too early?’
I nod. ‘Just a bit.’
‘Give you a day or two to get over it? Aye,’ she adds when I don’t answer. ‘That’s what I’ll do but food first. Fin says you’ve barely eaten all weekend.’
‘I can’t eat when I’m not hungry,’ I reply, tightening my grip on my bag as Nat grabs the handle. I frown, giving it a slight pull. ‘And I’m not an invalid.’
‘You will be if you din’nae let go.’
‘Oh, for fuck—’ I stop. When did I start to swear as a matter of course? Yesterday? Last week? When I came back from L.A. for the second time, alone?
Nattsks. ‘It’s become as easy as God bless you,’ she admonishes, teasingly referring to my language as she gives the handle a final yank. Placing it on the step behind her and out of my reach, she produces a small brown envelope from the pocket of her sprayed-on jeans. It’s the kind of envelope my mum used to put my school dinner money in.
‘That’ll be a pound,’ she says, holding out her palm. ‘It’s retaliation, and I was gonna call itIvy’s Fuck-Up Fund, but that was before I found out you’d actually... ’
‘Been fucked? Fucked up?’
‘Ha! And another two!’ she adds, delightedly. ‘I was tryin’ to think of something a little less sweary, likeup the duff.’ I don’t answer, though I think I huff. ‘Seeing as how I’m all lovely and stuff, I’ll let you off for now. I reckon I’ll have enough to get my lips done before the end of summer, either way. I might even have enough to buy a car once you’re in the delivery room.’ With that, she turns, picks up my bag, and climbs the stairs.
‘Trout pout,’ I respond, not allowing the wordsdeliveryandroomany space in my head. ‘Big lips to match your big mouth.’
‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ she says as she reaches the top. ‘Kettle’s on.’
Pulling out my phone, I text Fin as I begin to trudge up the stairs in her wake.
Remind me never to tell you anything ever again,I type.EVER!!!
Not sorry,comes Fin’s immediate response.
The day passes, and thankfully, Nat doesn’t once mention the revelations of Sunday evening. No hints, no baby jokes—in fact, she makes no comment or reference at all. And she doesn’t so much as blink when I announce in the salon that I’ve an appointment to keep Wednesday afternoon. I’m certain she thinks I’m going to the doctor’s by the way she reassures me she’ll hold down the fort. But she’d be mistaken because I’m going to see my lawyer. Besides, I had my pregnancy confirmed by the doctor in a late afternoon appointment earlier in the week. I’ve been given an ETA, or due date, I think it’s called, and a list as long as my arm of things I should and should not be doing—bye-bye wine and brie—along with the promise of a referral to the midwifery team.
The offices of McKenzie, McCadwell, & Bell aren’t the only legal representation in the village, but they are the oldest. Their offices are situated in a red brick Victorian terrace on a quiet street behind the salon, the final fact being one of my reasons for choosing them. Being out of the way means fewerlang-nebbitsare about, as June might say, and therefore, no one prying into my business.Christ knows you can’t sneeze in this village without someone reporting you’re coming down with a cold.
And I’ve still got plenty of sneezes to hide.
My second reason for choosing these offices is a little more sensible. Mr. McKenzie has handled many legal transactions for my family, so I turned to him when I needed advice. For both the setting up business and the divorce kind.
Despite the trio of names emblazoned on the old-fashioned brass plate on the front of the building, there isn’t a McCadwell or a Bell. At least, not inside these offices, though you’d probably find them in the local cemetery. Because when I say McKenzie isn’t the only legal representative in the village, but the oldest, I wasn’t just referring to their offices. I was referring to the man himself.
