Page 46 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

‘I was getting the Christmas decorations down from the attic because I’m a strong independent woman who doesn’t need other people to help her,’ I say, my words coming so fast they fall all over each other because I know that once I finish that sentence I am going to let out another yelp of pain as I try and make myself more comfortable. ‘Aaaaaarrgggh,’ I shout. So it seems that shifting my weight onto my right bum cheek is a mistake.

‘Do I need to phone an ambulance? I’m on my way over anyway,’ she says and her voice is shaky, which reminds me that she has been AWOL all day and I’ve actually been really worried about her.

‘No. No. I don’t think I need an ambulance, but if you’re coming over can you use your spare key to get in because I’m not sure I can move yet.’

‘Yes. Of course. I will,’ she says, and almost immediately there is a rattle at my front door and I hear a key turn in the lock and the door open. I can’t see downstairs, but I don’t have to wait to find out that Niamh has just arrived.

‘I was just outside,’ she calls, as Daniel once again erupts into a volley of barks and whines. I hear the living room door open and there follows a stampede of feet as Daniel rockets up the stairs to perform emergency first aid in the form of jabbing me with his paw and his wet nose.

‘I’m okay,’ I grimace as I try to move again. ‘It’s okay, Daniel. Good boy.’

‘Oh, Becca,’ I hear as Niamh arrives at the top of the stairs looking miserable as sin, face pale, still wearing her coat and carrying a Superdrug bag.

‘I’m okay,’ I tell her. ‘I mean my arse might be broken but I think I’m okay, I think I only fell a few steps…’ The truth is I’ve no idea how many steps it was and I want to cry. I want to call my mum and get her to come over and make it all better, but looking at Niamh, there’s no doubt in my mind that her need is greater.

The poor woman looks absolutely terrified.

She slumps onto the carpet beside me. ‘Good. Good. I mean, obviously I’m sorry you’re in pain. But I’m glad you don’t think it’s serious. Because I think I’m going to need you a lot over the next while.’

My heart plummets faster than my arse did out of the attic. ‘I knew it,’ I say, feeling the panic build inside but knowing I have to push it down because I have to be strong for Niamh. ‘Did you find another lump? Is it cancer this time? We’ll beat it, you know. I promise.’

I’m saying the words, but it doesn’t feel real. Those don’t feel like words people say in real life. They feel like words from a script of a medical drama or a soap and not what I have to say to my best friend, three weeks before Christmas.

‘And if you lose your hair, I’ll shave mine off too and everything. You won’t be alone. I promise.’

‘It’s not cancer,’ Niamh says, looking up at me, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Shit, I don’t know how to say this.’

What’s worse than cancer? Oh God, I can’t bear it. ‘Niamh, what is it?’ I ask although part of me wants to put my hands over my ears so that I don’t have to hear whatever it is she is going to say next.

‘Just say it,’ I plead.

She looks at me, her face etched with worry. ‘Becca, I’m pregnant.’

31

PAPA DON’T PREACH

‘You’re pregnant?’ I ask, forgetting about my own injuries while I take in the look of terror on Niamh’s face.

‘I’m so… so… embarrassed,’ she says. ‘I’m forty-six. I have four children. It was bad enough that Fiadh was a surprise when I was planning my fortieth birthday – not that I’d change her for the world – but to do it again? At my age? Jodie and the boys are going to absolutely lose their shit.’

The same Jodie who is currently in Manchester with my boys and who might be starting a relationship with one of them. I don’t have time to think about that now, though. Not when we have real drama.

‘But how? Why? When did you find out?’ I ask.

‘Remember when we were talking on Friday? And you made that crack about “unexpected baby in the uterus area”? I thought it was really funny, until I really thought about it and realised that I’m late,’ Niamh says, rubbing her temples with her fingers. ‘And I’ve been feeling out of sorts, you know. Tired. A bit queasy. Definitely a bit gassy. And my boobs’ – she gestures to her chest – ‘are swollen and heavy and so incredibly sensitive. I almost decked Paul when he tried to cop a feel in the kitchen on Friday night.’

Amid the clear distress of the situation I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy that Niamh has a husband who still wants to cop a feel. Although, I suppose that’s not all he wants to do if she has found herself up the duff again.

‘And you’ve had sex?’ I ask.

‘Well it’s not likely to be the second coming of Christ, is it?’ Niamh says. ‘God in all his infinite wisdom would not entrust his only son to me – an ageing heathen who believes in the theory of evolution. Yes. I’ve had sex. With my husband.’

‘And you didn’t use protection?’ I ask.

She blushes. ‘We used a condom. Like we always do. Ever since Fiadh was born and I refused to go back on the pill. I thought it would eventually drive Paul to get the snip but he’s a big fucking coward who’s terrified of anyone coming near his balls with a scalpel. Funnily enough, he doesn’t mind my perineum being ripped from hither to thither for the fifth time by one of his ginormous headed offspring. You’d think by this stage they’d have invented a perineal zip or something for women of childbearing years. But anyway, the bloody condom must have split or something. Because I’m late. Two whole weeks late. How the hell did I not pick up on this before now?’

I don’t know what to say so I just take her hand.

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