After a few failed attempts ringing her student digs, I finally got through. ‘Mitch,’ she said. ‘How are you? I’ve been meaning to call but it’s been mad here. I’ve been missing you so much. Can you come and stay? I’ve met loads of people I want you to meet …’
She was so eager to share the world that was opening up, her course, her new friends. I couldn’t bring myself to blurt out that I was up the duff and what a mess I’d made of things.
I tried calling Jo in Brighton the next day; big-hearted Jo, she was bound to be sympathetic, but she was never in. Same with Ally. Out whenever I tried, and what could they have done anyway? I left messages for them but was never really sure that they got them. They were in those halls of residence for students, so who knew who took the phone call and if they passed on the message.
After a few weeks, Ally finally got in touch.
‘I got a message you called, so tell me everything,’ she said. ‘What have you been up to? And how many hearts have you broken since we left?’
Only my own, I thought. But the moment to unburden had passed. I’d started to close that part of me off and now I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened. I felt like a failure. We’d shared everything to do with boys, first kisses, first dates – who’d done what with whom. We’d laughed our socks off at confessions of our teenage fumblings in shop doorways, the back seat of a car or a bedroom whilst parents were down below, but I couldn’t tell her this. Pride? Shame? Embarrassment? All three.
I felt my friends had moved on, had bright futures. Mine was to be broke, pregnant, abandoned and jobless. I’d contact them again when I was back on an even keel, whenever that might be. At the same time, I felt angry that they hadn’t been there for me when I needed them, but also confused. How were Ally, Jo and Sara to know what I was going through if I didn’t tell them? I’d made out to them that I was doing fine, that I’d moved on too; and, if I was honest, when Jack had been alive and we’d been wrapped up in each other, I’d hardly given Ally, Jo or Sara a second thought. Mixed up, that’s what I was.
Mum and Dad were so angry; well, Dad mainly, said I’d ruined my chances, wasted my opportunities, let him down. Although they said I could stay in the house, the atmosphere was so miserable and heavy with disappointment, I couldn’t bear it. I got out. My elder sister Fi was in her second year at university in London studying politics. Mum had told her my news. At least she wasn’t judgemental. She shared a flat in Notting Hill and had a couch I could crash on, so there I went.
It was a hard pregnancy. Fi didn’t really want me there. A pregnant sister trailing round after her cramped her style. We were such different people and had never been great friends growing up. Fi was much more serious and academic than I ever was. I was always too girlie and frivolous in her eyes. In London, she had her new-found community, her own life to live and so, grateful as I was to be there, I kept out of her way. It was a lonely time. Every ache and kick from the baby was a reminder of someone I wanted to forget. I worked as a waitress in an Italian café for as long as I could. Then I had the baby. Fi was with me on the day of her birth, and held me when I sobbed my heart out on the day I gave her up for adoption, but she was with me in believing that I was doing the right thing. I had seventeen pounds in my purse, barely enough to pay any rent – how would I ever look after a baby on my own? I wanted the child to have a fighting chance, so I agreed to let her go. Plus, I wanted no reminders of Jack. I’d move on, see if I could still go to college, turn the page and resume life as it had been before him.
The day the adoption services arrived, I faltered. My baby was a darling thing, a fairy angel with chubby cheeks and a fuzz of dark hair. I loved her from her first breath, and the idea of giving her away was ripping me apart, but I had no home of my own, no money, no man, nothing to offer, and a sister who didn’t really want me – never mind a child – around. Mum and Dad knew I planned on adoption. They never offered an alternative. ‘For the best,’ said Mum. So I let her go, but the pain of doing so was a knife-cut to my heart, deep and hurtful, leaving a wound inside that I could barely deal with.
I grew up that day, shut the pain away, closed and locked the door, not to be opened. I told myself I must move on, make a new life, keep busy. I’d named her Sara Rose. Sara after my friend Sara Meyers, because we’d sworn one night that if we ever had baby girls I’d name mine Sara, she’d name hers Michelle. Rose was for Jack after his band, Black Rose. I knew her new parents would probably rename her, but she’d always be Sara Rose to me. I toyed with the idea of calling Sara – she’d want to know; would be thrilled about the baby’s name – but then I’d have to reveal everything and she’d question why I hadn’t
