Free Forget Me Not by Isabel Wolff Page B

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    ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Maybe it is …’
    Dad put his hand on mine. ‘You won’t be on your own, Anna. I’ll help you, darling. So will Cassie.’
    I doubted that Cassie would help in the slightest – but she was at least thrilled by my news. ‘I’m delighted,’ she said when I phoned her that night and told her that she was going to be an aunt. ‘Good on you, Anna! Congratulations!’
    ‘Well, thanks,’ I said, genuinely touched by her enthusiasm. ‘But can I just repeat that I’m not with the father – Xan. He’s gone to Indonesia. He doesn’t want to know about the baby. He didn’t want me to have it. He’s effectively abandoned me and I’m extremely upset.’
    ‘Yes, I know,’ Cassie said matter-of-factly. ‘I heard you say all that.’
    ‘Then why are you quite so happy about it?’
    ‘Because I think it’s great that you’re to be a single mum. Good for your image. You’ve always been far too … I don’t know … organised about everything – always planning ahead – and now you’ve been bowled a googly.’
    ‘Well, I’m glad you approve,’ I replied crisply. ‘Do let me know if you’d like me to develop a drug habit or get a criminal record, won’t you?’
    ‘I’m going to start knitting for the baby at my Stitch ’n’ Bitch group,’ she went on, ignoring me. ‘Bootees first, then a couple of matinée jackets. I wonder whether it’s going to be a girl or a boy … ? Maybe you could find out for me when you go for your scan. Or no – I know – I’ll make everything in yellow. Do you like moss stitch?’
    My director of studies was very understanding. Most of our course was project work – in addition to the daily lectures we had to produce designs, to professional standards, for four different gardens. Then in June there’d be two Horticulture exams to test our plantsmanship, and the baby was due a week after these. I’d carry on with the course, as normal, but would just have to pray that I didn’t give birth early. I was cheered by stories of first babies arriving late. So, to my surprise, my life didn’t descend into turmoil, as I’d thought it would, but went on more or less as before: except that now Xan wasn’t in it, but his baby was – as though they’d swapped places. From time to time I’d pick up Sue’s book and reread her unwittingly prophetical inscription. I was blooming and growing all right.
    I was aware, each day, of the baby unfurling inside me like a fern. When I went for my ultrasounds I’d watch in silent awe as it did underwater twirls and turns, or waved at me with its petal-like hands. I could see its profile, as it rocked in its uterine cradle; I could see the filigree of its bones, no bigger than a bird’s; I could see the arc of its vertebrae, like a string of seed pearls.
    ‘I love you,’ I’d whisper to it each night, as I lay, hands clasped to my swelling abdomen, feeling it jump and dance. ‘I’m sorry you’re not going to have a dad, but I’ll love you five times as much to make up for it.’
    I e-mailed Xan an update but got no reply. His attitude wounded me, but it also helped me, because it enabled a carapace of scar tissue to form over my heart.
    Seeing him on TV was hard though. The first time it happened I cried. Suddenly there he was, on the screen, looking dismayingly attractive, talking about some economic summit or other in Java. A couple of days later he was on again, talking about Jemaah Islamiah and the threat they posed to Indonesian democracy. He began to appear more and more – hijacking my emotions: so much so that I took to watching the news on ITV. I couldn’t risk an unexpected sighting of him wrecking my day.
    In mid April I went to the first of my antenatal classes in the local church hall in Brook Green.
    I felt nervous as I arrived, my despondency increasing as one cosy-looking couple followed another into the large draughty room. I’d prepared myself for this by putting a large aquamarine