Page 49 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Asha

I am finally alone. I stand and stare at myself in the mirror of the dressing room and run a hand over my flat stomach.

How long before it will start to show? I know most pregnant women caress their bumps affectionately, but I cannot imagine doing this.

It feels like there is an alien inside me.

How dare it implant itself in there, making me sick and threatening to take over my whole life.

I then think what a terrible person I must be to react in this way – Rashmi was over the moon when she first got pregnant. I slump into a chair.

At least I am alone. Sheila Bold’s group has – thankfully – moved to a different dressing room. With several groups knocked out of the competition, a few rooms became empty, and the organisers felt it best to move Bold as Brass, giving our group some much-needed peace, let alone space.

Clarissa told us to take a well-earned break before the finals show this evening and all the other women have left the theatre.

We have the whole afternoon to ourselves, and I would have loved to go sightseeing, but I feel so sick.

Here I am in one of the most famous capital cities and I end up being stuck in this theatre dressing room.

Fay has gone back with Clarissa to her hotel to have a lie down. She had dark circles under her eyes; I think her injury is taking its toll on her.

Cath and Bonnie have gone sightseeing, using their travel passes. It would not surprise me if they got lost, but they always seem to land on their feet whatever happens to them. Cath would call it the luck of the Irish and heaven knows what Bonnie would call it.

Ruby and Monica have gone out and said they would look for a cheap phone.

I think they could see I was beginning to get a bit annoyed with them using my phone every five minutes.

I am sorry theirs are broken or lost, but it is a bit of a cheek to use mine all the time.

They could have used anyone’s phone in the group, but somehow mine was the only one they requested…

Oh dear, Jay would tell me I am being bad-tempered.

I have to speak to him. I look at his messages on my mobile.

He is wondering why I have not got back to him.

I go to select his number but quickly stop as Ingrida enters the dressing room.

‘Ingrida, I thought you had gone out with the others?’

‘ Ne . How are you feeling?’

‘Pretty sick. It is not so bad when I am sitting down.’

‘I think it is good idea to eat little and often. I nurse pregnant ladies in hospital and they say this advice to me. I buy you these.’

Ingrida hands me a bag of plain crisps and a bottle of sparkling water.

‘Thank you.’ I realise I am a little faint after only a small breakfast and the exertion of our rehearsal. I sip the water and nibble on the crisps. The effect is immediate as my feelings of nausea are quelled.

‘Have you told Jay?’

I shake my head. I do not think Ingrida would understand my negative feelings, knowing how much she loves her stepchildren and being unable to have her own baby.

‘I am going to phone him now.’

Ingrida pats my arm and suggests we go for a walk into Paris when I am ready.

‘I think fresh air will do you good, ja? I will wait in theatre café.’

I smile at her gratefully and when she has left the dressing room, I take a deep breath and video-call Jay.

‘Ash. I was beginning to get worried about you. How’s Paris and how are you, my darling?’

‘Jay, I need to talk to you…’

‘What’s wrong? You look worried.’

‘I have been unwell. Feeling sick and under the weather.’

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘No, I know what the matter is…’

‘Well, tell me.’

‘Jay, I am…’

‘You’re not going to say pregnant?’ He laughs and I stay silent.

‘Ash?’

‘Yes. I am pregnant.’

It is his turn to go quiet, and he stares back at me.

‘I know. I cannot take it in either…’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Quite sure. I took a test. It said I am already three to four weeks.’

‘Three to four weeks. Oh, my word.’

I can see him doing a calculation in his head.

‘It will be full term at the end of the year. Jay, what are we going to do?’

‘What are we going to do? I guess we’re going to become parents.’

‘Jay, be serious. I thought you did not want children, well not yet.’

‘I am being serious. I mean, I never said I didn’t want any, and I always thought we would end up with children one day… Ash this is big… I mean huge. Just think, our child is growing inside of you.’

‘You mean, you do not mind?’

‘Well, we could have got the timing a bit better, but – oh wow – I am going to be a father.’

‘But our wedding? Our travel plans? I mean I probably will not be showing for the ceremony, but our big trip away, travelling the world?’

Jay chews his lip and then looks at me, his eyes shining. ‘Wait, we don’t need to change anything.’

‘What?’

‘We can travel for three, maybe four months, come home to have the baby and then take the child with us to complete our trip.’

‘That sounds crazy.’

‘No, it’ll be the perfect time. It’ll be easier while the baby is tiny and not mobile. No extra airfares and you’ll be paid maternity leave for the trip rather than taking an unpaid sabbatical. More money for us to spend on nice baby-friendly hotels.’

‘I suppose that could work… but Jay, slow down. I am not sure I am ready to be a mother. I feel like my body has been invaded, and the sickness is terrible.’

‘You have been invaded. By a tiny creation made from our love. I hope it’s a girl. She will be as beautiful as you and dance just like you.’

‘And what if I want a little boy who will look just like you – but with my teeth, obviously…’

‘Obviously.’

‘…and be as positive as you no matter what bad news comes their way, well what then?’

‘Boy or girl, I don’t mind. And anyway, it could be twins. One of each.’ Jay laughs and I wag my finger at him.

‘Do not even dare suggest that. Getting used to having one baby will be enough for now.’

I feel nauseous again, so sip more water and nibble another crisp.

‘What are you eating?’

‘Crisps, for the sickness… Jay, you realise I am going to get big and fat.’

‘No, you won’t. You’ll be swollen with our baby, not fat. And you’ll be as beautiful then as you are now.’

‘But look at Rashmi.’

‘Your sister never took care of herself. She’s not like you. You’ll be a very yummy mummy!’

I think of Monica. She is stunningly beautiful and trim despite having twins. Jay is right. Just because I am pregnant, I do not need to let myself go. I am not Rashmi.

‘You’ll be a wonderful mother, Ash. And I reckon I’ll be a terrific father. I can’t wait to see you. I love you.’

‘I love you, too. Now do not go saying anything to Ma and Baba or anyone else for that matter. I need time… and we should not tell anyone before the wedding anyway…’

‘My lips are sealed. Good luck in the finals too, or should I say break a…’

‘No! Do not say that.’

I tell him all about Fay’s accident and Sheila Bold and the competition. And I also tell him about Janine.

‘That was her house? I saw it on the news – there was a dead body in there. Awful. Has anyone contacted her to see what’s happened?’

‘No, I don’t think anyone has messaged her since she left our chat group the day we travelled. Perhaps I should send her a text? I am the closest in age to her in the group and I would love to know what is going on.’

‘Yes, perhaps you should. Although she may not reply, given she stole your Paris money.’

‘And possibly all our lottery money, too. But we cannot know that for sure.’

By the time Jay and I say our goodbyes, I feel infused with his positivity.

I look down at my stomach. Will I make a good mother? It seems a ridiculous thought. Me, a mother. But I realise I am slowly warming to the idea.

I write a short text to Janine, choosing my words carefully.

Janine, are you OK? We have heard your house was on the news. Has your mother passed away? If so, we all send our condolences.

I start to type.

We do not know what happened with the Paris money, perhaps you can explain?

But on reflection, it does not seem right to include this when her mother has most probably died, so I delete this line and instead write,

We want to know if you are OK. If you want to talk, you can call me anytime. Asha.

I grab my things and find Ingrida in the café.

‘You look much better, Asha.’

‘I feel much better. I have sent Janine a text asking about her mother.’

‘ Ja , I send one to her yesterday. I hope she is OK. Ready for Paris? The theatre receptionist, she give me good tips for us to see many top sites in one afternoon.’

‘Lead the way, Ingrida.’

‘First, we catch a bus to the Place de la Concorde . It is only a short distance. Then we can walk through the Jardin des Tuileries . It is public gardens and there is no entrance fee.’

‘That sounds lovely. And plenty of fresh air.’

‘From there it is a thirty to forty-minute walk up the Champs-élysées to the Arc de Triomphe .’

‘ Très bien , Paris here we come, and I shall buy you a French pastry for being my personal tour guide, and… well and for all that upset I caused.’ I scan Ingrida’s face for annoyance but find none there.

She slips her arm inside mine and within half an hour we are ambling through the many walkways of the Tuileries gardens in the spring sunshine.

Cherry trees, full of blossom, sway in a gentle breeze and we admire the bright spring tulips that fill the formal flower beds and frame the stone frontage of the Tuileries Palace .

By nibbling tiny amounts of crisp and sipping small mouthfuls of sparkling water every time nausea threatens, I manage the whole afternoon without vomiting once. Ingrida dubs it her salt and sparkle therapy.

‘You should tell everyone about it.’ I pat her hand. ‘It is like a miracle cure.’

Everywhere we go my eyes are drawn to parents pushing babies in prams, tiny children held in slings and pregnant women. While Ingrida gives me a potted history of Paris.