Page 47 of The Price of Love
The kitchen door flew open and Flint shot in as though he’d been shoved from behind.
‘Oh, bloody hell, Will! Bree’s doubled over on the living room floor, we can’t move her and she says her waters have gone.’
Cal was already out of his chair, but I was panic-propelled, and made it to the living room while he was still circumventing the dresser. ‘Bree?’
Sure enough, there she was, bump pressed into an accommodating beanbag chair, rocking gently and moaning. ‘Will? My bag is upstairs, my records are all in there, we need . . . oooooooooh . . . we need to get to the hospital.’
Jazz looked at me over her head. ‘She was carrying on about it being a false alarm until a second ago.’ I looked at where he and Flint were trying to avoid looking, a big wet patch on the carpet, half the beanbag, and Bree’s shoes.
‘I just thought she’d pissed herself.’ Ash was on the other side of the room, mobile to his ear.
‘Any luck with the hospital?’ Flint asked.
‘Still engaged.’
‘We have to go.’ I hardly dared to look at Cal. I’d just accused him of being as bad as we suspected Luke of being and now I needed his help. ‘Cal can drive one car. I’ll go in the back with Bree. Jazz can bring the boys in his car.’
‘Ooooooooooooooooaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggghhhhh!’
‘And hurry!’
Everyone was electrified. Flint, Ash and Jazz got into the Skoda, and I helped Bree to her feet, despite her protests that she couldn’t stand.
‘You wanted an active birth, girl.’ I hauled on her arm until she rested her entire bodyweight against me. ‘Looks like you’ve got one.’
‘This . . . isn’tactive. . . it’s bloody . . .torture!’
Cal had a look of concentration on his face that didn’t quite cover up the darker stuff underneath. Even with a pregnant woman clutching at his shoulder there was a splintered quality about him, as though the black-eyed jokily abstracted personality overlaid the real, fractured man underneath, like ametal casing over a broken watch. Gently, tenderly, he helped Bree through the door, her other hand clenched in mine, driving her nails into the back of my wrist, and together we eased her down the steps and into the back of his Micra.
‘Oh God,’ she said in a sudden moment of pain-free clarity. ‘Please don’t let my baby be born in here. Please get me to a nice, clean hospital.’
‘Doing my best.’
So, with Cal in front and Jazz following, we drove slowly and carefully through the streets towards the hospital, both of them with their noses nearly touching the windscreens, shuffling the wheels through their hands and checking the rear-view mirrors every ten seconds, even though the roads were almost deserted. It was like a Mr Magoo procession. On the backseat, still gripping my hand, arm, and anything else she could reach, Bree huffed and puffed and groaned like an airlocked boiler.
‘Every two minutes,’ I said from the back, in a slightly high-pitched voice since Bree had her nails currently embedded in my thigh.
‘What?’ Cal glanced at me in the mirror.
‘Her contractions. Every two minutes.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Not for the baby, no, but it might be for us. Can you go any faster?’
‘I can do my best.’
We arrived at the hospital and, in something of an anticlimax, Bree was wheeled away out of sight. Ocean joined us, and I and the five men sat along the maternity ward corridor listening to the shrieks. We were lined up like students waiting to see a particularly punitive Head.
A midwife popped her head out of a room farther down. ‘Are you with Breeze?’ she asked, and when we all nodded, went on, ‘So which one of you is the father?’
The lads all exchanged looks.
‘Oh, come on. I need someone in here to hold her hand and give some encouragement. I’m not asking you to deliver the baby.’
‘Um, none of us are the father,’ Flint said hesitantly.
‘What, five men and not one of you the expectant dad?’
