Free OMG Baby! by Emma Garcia Page B

calling from Cairo . . . What?’ she says at the same time.
    ‘I said, are you—’
    ‘Yes, been to the Pyramids today!’
    ‘Was it amazing?’ I ask.
    ‘Are we what, love?’ Everything I say overlaps with her and I hear my own voice ricocheting. ‘Are you there, Viv?’
    ‘I’m listening!’ I shout.
    ‘Amazing, oh yes, but a bit scruffy around and about.’
    ‘There was a stinking dead horse!’ shouts Reg in the background.
    ‘I’m pregnant, Nana, me and Max are.’
    ‘Nile cruise tomorrow,’ she says, ‘so we won’t ring for a week or so, love . . . But listen – your mother is in London. She wants to see you.’ I hear a loud crackle. ‘You’re pregnant? She’s pregnant, Reg.’
    ‘Yes. Yes. Ten weeks. Due in April.’ I’m laughing, pressing the phone tightly to my ear.
    I think the line been cut off, but then her voice comes back clear as a bell. ‘That’s wonderful news, darling,’ and then, ‘How are you feeling?’
    ‘Happy!’
    Another hissing of dead air space and finally the words ‘I can’t hear you very well . . . Congratulations to you both, and listen – be careful if you meet your mother. Don’t let—’ before she’s gone.

    I walk past the café , Eden, peering in, trying to see if she’s arrived first. Somehow I don’t want to be the one waiting for her. But all I see is my own reflection looking nervously into the huge window. I take a deep breath, turn and stride towards the doorway. The café is pleasant, green, narrow, the ceiling hung with vines and the natural plaster walls with Indonesian gate mirrors. I hesitate by the front desk and then I spot her up at the back. She sits at a low table reading a book in her lap. I feel an almost painful thud of recognition. She seems draped in colour, a watercolour left in the rain. Two or three scarves and a long skirt dyed like a stained-glass window, her legs crossed, sandalled foot bouncing, ankle bracelets glinting. I swallow panic, fear, tears. She doesn’t look up until I’m beside her table, where I wait for a second with my ears burning. She turns and smiles from her cloud of dark hair. Her small, knowing eyes fix on me; I’m fascinated by the marble flecks of blue and green against the brown.
    ‘Vivienne,’ she says gently, and reaches for my hand, bracelets tinkling. The touch feels healing, cool and gentle. She gestures for me to sit opposite her on an uncomfortable Moroccan pouffe thing. Without asking, she pours tea for me from a tall silver pot, and then she sits, head tilted, smiling, like a therapist.
    ‘I’m glad you came,’ she says, and then stops. She presses her lips together, rests her hands on the table and considers them. She looks up almost shyly.
    ‘I don’t know what to call you,’ I tell her.
    ‘My name? Rainey.’
    That smarts and we’re hardly past ‘hello’. I’d wanted to refuse to call her mum, but she’s not giving me the chance. I remember how she is: pulling you in and then cutting you off. I’ll stay cool, distant, in control.
    ‘How come you’re in London?’ I ask, trying for a nonchalant tone.
    She smiles, showing little pearl-like teeth; I notice a scarlet streak at the side of her hair. She looks really great, I think with weird pride.
    ‘Would you believe it’s because of you? I dreamt of you.’ I feel myself blush and she notices. ‘Does it surprise you to know I have visions about you?’
    ‘I don’t know. Not really.’ What is she on about? ‘So you’re in London because you had a dream about me?’
    She nods and her eyes sparkle. I take a sip of tea and almost gag – it tastes of sweaty socks.
    She smirks. ‘Nettle and pandan leaf to nurture your child.’
    ‘And how long are you planning to stay?’
    She turns a silver ring round on her thumb. ‘You’re right not to trust me. All I’ve ever done is let you down.’ She lasers me with sad eyes.
    Well, I can’t argue with her there, but she’s doing the tilted-head smiling again, so I feel I