Free Until You're Mine by Samantha Hayes Page B

get deeper and deeper, more twisted and untrue, so that eventually I have trouble remembering who I really am.
    But, all things considered, I decide that for the moment being someone else isn’t so bad; that being the real me would be dangerous and unhelpful in my current predicament. I am here for one reason only and my time will soon come. The wait itself is a gestation.
    ‘So . . .’ Pip says, trying to fill the gap. We’re running out of conversation. Lilly and the twins are in the playroom. They seem to be getting along well enough. I can hear clattering and chattering and occasional whoops and at least they are not killing each other. Pip and I are sitting at Claudia’s kitchen table (I think of everything in this house as belonging to Claudia) and exchanging banter about children and babies and pregnancy and giving birth. Then Pip strikes me full in the face: ‘Haven’t you ever wanted children of your own?’
    It’s one of those unanswerable questions. Well, it is if I am to remain in my newly-constructed bubble of lies and deceit as well as keeping my job, anyway. Mess up too soon and I’m out on my ear. Explanation is impossible.
    To field it, I try a laugh. Then I try a long sip from my mug of tea. Next I try a shriek to the children to check they are still playing nicely. I glance at my watch and stare at the wall clock but Pip’s only been here ten minutes. She won’t be leaving yet. Besides, I haven’t answered her question.
    Haven’t you ever wanted children of your own?
    ‘I . . .’ I falter. I have no idea what to say. ‘Well . . .’
    Pip’s interested smile has diminished and now she is also looking for ways to stop me having to reply. My body language has become awkward – pained face, crossed arms hugging my very un-pregnant body, both feet jiggling nervously on the tiles; I couldn’t make it more obvious that I don’t want to talk about this. But now I have to.
    ‘It’s complicated,’ I say. The syllables are razors in my mouth.
    Pip just stares at me, feeling wretched, wishing she’d never asked.
Look at her, sitting in Claudia’s nice pine kitchen chair, all pregnant and wide and brimming with life and hope and love. Her breasts are big and heave together within her oversized sweater. It could be homemade – a hand-knitted effort to go with her home-grown baby. How lovely. How very not me.
    ‘I haven’t really met the right person yet.’
    I don’t need to say any more. I should stop right now. She would never understand. Pip would simply be relieved that her faux pas has passed and we could talk about baking or schools or how long she’s known Claudia. Instead, for some unknown yet horrific reason, I continue. ‘It’s not for want of trying, I can assure you. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m obviously in my thirties and no man in my life so I’d better get a move on, but how on earth am I going to do it without a partner?’
    What am I saying?
    I dig my nails into my palms to silence myself. I know only too well there are many ways to get a baby without a partner. It’s just that none has worked yet.
    ‘You’re in your thirties?’ Pip says in a lame, flattering attempt to change the subject. Her cheeks are crested scarlet. Pregnant women get hot easily.
    ‘Thirty-three,’ I tell her. ‘Thirty-three, an old maid and no children.’ I laugh, but it comes out slightly demented. I hear my mother’s words from beyond the grave:
Fancy, she’s not married, no children. Told you so . . . 
Then another little laugh to lighten things up as, while I somehow want Pip – someone,
any
one – to feel my pain, I mustn’t let it ruin everything. The last thing I need is for her to tell Claudia I’m some baby-obsessed psycho. She’d kick me out in nothing flat. This is all so finely timed. I catch my breath. ‘But it’s OK. I’m lucky to be working with children.’ Another laugh. More convincing this time.
    ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Pip adds