One Thing Led to Another. Katy Regan

be OK. If I just concentrate, this nausea will pass, right?

      Wrong.

      The adrenaline rushes around my veins, my cheeks suddenly burn, my mouth fills with liquid, I’m going to throw up. I’m actually going to puke!

      ‘Tess, what’s wrong? Are you alright?’ I hear Gina say, but it’s too late.

      I stand up, throwing my chair behind me so violently it makes an ear-splitting shriek across the wet floor. I briefly weigh up my options – the door, toilet or bag. I have the good sense – even in this state – to remember my bag has a very nice Mulberry purse in there and the downstairs toilet is way too far so I make a dash for the door.

      I practically sprint to the other end of the café, pushing anyone in my path – a horsey blonde, a child – out of my way.

      I grab hold of the handle of the door, fling it open, lurch onto the pavement and…let’s just say it’s not pretty. I just wasted several drinks and half an all-day breakfast, narrowly missing a yummy mummy with pristine toddler in pram.

      I hear Gina swear from inside the café, then rush outside.

      ‘Chist’s sake Tess,’ she says to me, arms folded, almost telling me off. ‘What brought that on?’

      ‘God knows,’ I say, wiping away the tears. ‘Probably just some twenty-four hour bug.’

      

      The nausea passes as quickly as it came. After a glass of water drunk shakily and some baby wipes donated by the glamorous mother – so much more glamorous than me, at this precise moment and I haven’t even had the baby yet – I feel ready to brave it home.

      The plan is perfect: DVDs, toast and a full on hibernation fest for the rest of the day.

      Gina puts her arm around me as we walk along the Essex Road.

      ‘You scared me then,’ she says. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me to shut up?’

      ‘Easier said than done,’ I say.

      ‘True,’ she says, ‘sorry about that.’

      It’s a miserable grey sludge of a day, one of those that never quite gets going. In the last eight days, since the row in Frankie’s, the only contact I’ve had with Jim has been three stilted phone conversations. We can usually yabber on for England on the phone, me and Jim. We once spent an hour debating whether Davina McCall had married out of her league when she married that fit bloke off Pet Rescue. Jim has been known to wander off mid-conversation then forget I am there, leaving me on the end of the phone, listening to him fart. We are so comfortable with one another it’s ridiculous. But not this week. This week for the first time ever I’ve sat in bed having small talk with Jim Ashcroft.

      But now, I don’t know whether it’s because I don’t feel quite so sick anymore, or because I feel bonded to Gina, comforted that she’s here with me, after that ordeal, but for the first time in ages I feel the tentative fingers of something like calm feather my senses.

      It’s still elusive. Like an under-developed Polaroid, but it’s there alright and it feels good. It’s as if everything that was hurled in the air, an emotional tornado, is suddenly floating gently back down to earth, to resume its rightful place.

      I’d feel almost good now if it weren’t for the big secret hammering away in my brain, chipping away, trying to get out. Maybe I should tell her? Tell her now whilst we’re bonded in our respective misfortunes.

      We turn into Blockbusters, pick up some shamelessly girly films, essential Sunday supplies, and carry on along the Essex Road that we’ve pounded so many times it’s imprinted on the soles of our shoes, our well charted territory.

      By the time we make it home, the bottoms of our jeans are soaking wet and it feels like we’ll never get warm. I go and change whilst Gina puts the kettle on, turns up the central heating and arranges our supplies in little bowls.

      ‘Does poorly patient want a cup of tea?’ she shouts from the bottom of the stairs, as I root around in my wardrobe for something to wear.

      ‘Yes please nurse,’ I shout back, smiling to myself. Is this TLC I am experiencing? Is this me, Tess Jarvis being looked after by Gina Marshall for a change? And she doesn’t even know.

      I pull on some old tracksuit bottoms and my netball sweatshirt. ‘Officially better,’ I announce, as Gina hands me a steaming mug at the bottom of the stairs.

      I want to tell her. I’m burning to tell her so I won’t have to handle this alone and yet, I want to savour this moment, hold it for ever. Never again, when I’ve told her, will we stand in this kitchen as two, single, childless friends with nothing but ourselves and the rain battering the roof for company.

      We move into the lounge and collapse on the sofa. Now’s your moment, ‘Do it now,’ I urge myself. ‘Find the words, come on!’

      ‘Gina,’ I say. My heart throws a punch at my rib.

      She leaps to her feet. Shit, this is it!

      ‘I know, we’d better get on with it. Which one shall we watch?’ she says, marching over to the bag of the DVDs.

      She takes out Lost in Translation, shows it me, I nod, weakly. She crawls over to the TV, bends down, her back to me, muttering something about Bill Murray, putting it in the machine.

      I think about my promise to Jim, how we said we’d wait until after the scan to tell anyone…but the words are too big, they don’t fit in my mouth anymore, out they topple like I’ve got Tourette’s.

      ‘Gina,’ I say, ‘I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby.’

      

      If I thought Gina was going to take this well, I was mistaken, sorely mistaken. I’m not prepared for the look on her face when she turns around. Shock is not the word. Something like disgust would be more fitting. She doesn’t say anything for what seems like ages. She just sits there, DVD in hand, and glares at me.

      ‘What?’ she says, through gritted teeth. It’s barely audible, a whisper.

      ‘I’m pregnant.’

      ‘Whose…?’

      ‘It’s Jim’s,’ I say, staring at the floor.

      She looks at me through a gap in her fingers.

      ‘How pregnant are you?’

      ‘Eight and a half weeks,’

      ‘And you didn’t tell me?!’

      ‘Well can you blame me?’ I say. ‘Look at your reaction.’

      ‘But Tess, you’re not even with Jim, you don’t even love him like that. You’re not in love, either of you!’

      The words sting. Didn’t she think I already knew that? And didn’t she think I wished it was different?

      ‘I do know that,’ I say, quietly. ‘But it’s happened now, and we’ve decided we’re keeping the baby.’

      ‘What?’ says Gina, half laughing, half crying. I retreat further back into the sofa.

      ‘But you can’t,’ she says, ‘that’s ridiculous; you can’t have that baby, not like this.’

      ‘Who says?’ I say, crying now. ‘Why is that so wrong? We’re both adults, this is not some teenage pregnancy. If I was to opt out of having this baby then I’d be opting out of life, choosing the easy way out, can’t you see?’

      Gina wipes her face, which is suddenly filled with steely determination.

      ‘Look,’ she says, coming to sit beside me. ‘We have options (we!?); let’s think about this. Because this isn’t about Jim, or the baby – it’s not even a baby yet, Tess, that’s what Mark told me when I had my abortion and he was right, it was just a cluster of cells – the only person this is