Curve Balls: The Ball Games Book Six Page 2

  “Hey, Mum. Thought I’d give you a ring as I’m off away for the weekend with our Mir.”

  “Hey, Dora, love.”

  I think I’m going deaf to boot and then I realise I still have the scarf on my head.

  “Listen, don’t let your sister buy any more books. She’s got enough.”

  This is a good time to keep my mouth shut that our apartment is above Waterstones.

  “I’ll try, but you know what she’s like.”

  We’ve saved up our £50 to spend and usually egg each other on to spend more.

  “I hope she meets a bloke soon. That’s what she needs.”

  I roll my eyes, thankful that my mother can’t see or she’d smack me around the ear. “She didn’t start any of this collecting nonsense until she married Peter. She’s been better off without him.”

  “Well, I hope she meets a nice bloke soon. Like what you’ve got.”

  “Yes, I’m very lucky.”

  “That’s what she needs. A nice bloke with a huge dick.”

  “Mother! She doesn’t need a man to be happy, and there are things you can buy for the other.”

  “If women were meant to be without men and their appendages, we’d be born mute with our own penises.”

  A pearl of advice from my mother there. Must remember to tell Mir that one. “Well anyway, we’re going to have a girly catch up and drink lots of wine.”

  “Sounds fabulous. I’m going to watch The Full Monty with Maggie in town tomorrow afternoon. I hope there’s at least one bloke with a fit arse. I only see your father’s extremely saggy one now.”

  There’s a visual I could have done without. I take a slug of wine.

  “Well I’ve got to go, Tim’ll be home soon.”

  “Gosh, yes, go make sure you’ve got his tea ready. He works hard that man.”

  God help me. If phones still had cords I’d have hung myself with it by now.

  “Yes, Mum. I’ll phone you next week, okay.”

  Speaking of which? Where is Tim? He’s late home tonight.

  Tim

  Our Tyler called and said he was at the pub and did I want a quick pint. That’s all I can have with driving. Those two got a taxi there, and I guess I’m the taxi back. But it’s nice seeing my son. I miss him now he’s not at home, and I wanted to check he’s okay as that baby news must have hit him for six.

  “So, Dad, if Mum asks, why are you late?”

  “Well, ordinarily I keep nothing from your Mum because I don’t have a death wish, but seeing as it would lead to twenty questions about you, if she asks I was stuck in traffic due to an accident on the motorway.”

  “Gotcha. That’s a good one.”

  “So how are things then, son?”

  “They’re alright, Dad. Just telling Dylan it’s all been a bit quick. I’ve enjoyed getting out and having a beer.”

  “Well, why don’t we have a blokes night, like every Wednesday or something?” I ask. “Then we can have a bit of breathing space, let our hair down. Be men.” I make a kind of growling he-man noise.

  “Sounds good to me,” says Dylan. “I don’t mind coming over to the Red Lion. It’ll make a change to being stuck in on my own. I can get a taxi back.”

  “I could really do with it. Just one night a week where I can be without heavy conversations,” adds Tyler.

  My son. I know he’ll be amazing. He just needs a little time to adjust to his circumstances. He’s had a lot happen all at once.

  “Well, that’s settled then.” I declare.

  “Well, yeah, once I’ve checked with Lindsay,” adds Ty.

  “And I’ll need to ask Cam,” says Dylan.

  I sigh. “Yeah, I’ll run it past Dora.”

  “It’s going to be another socks conversation. If any of them say fine. It’s most definitely NOT fine. Take it from me,” says Ty. He fills us in on his socks example and me and Dylan nod. We’ve both heard the word fine. Mother and daughter know this word well.

  “Why do big arguments come from simple things like socks?” I ask. “Sometimes I don’t get women.”

  It’s like I was psychic…

  “Hi love, I’m back.”

  “You’re late. It’s not like you.”

  “I know, traffic was terrible.”

  “Well, your tea’s on. Won’t be long now.”

  “What are we having?” I ask, slipping my coat off and getting ready to hang it in the hallway.

  “I’ve bunged a couple of pizzas in the oven cos I’m knackered.”

  “Oh yeah, what’ve you been doing?”

  “Well, there were no large orders today, so Beth didn’t need me. I packed for the weekend; then I went to the doctors, where I found out, thank fuck, that I wasn’t pregnant.”

  “Pregnant? You thought you were pregnant?” My soul thuds down to my feet. I’m going to pass out.

  She shrugs. “I’d not had a period for a few weeks.”

  “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m not pregnant. It might be the menopause.”

  “Oh, thank fuck for that.” I put my coat away. “So? Pizzas? You said you’d had a really busy day? What else did you do?”

  Oh dear. The beer has knocked my Dora radar askew. That’s quite a look on her face. I didn’t know eyes could go that narrow.

  “I packed to go away and I went to the doctors, where I had the exhausting news that I had possibly started the menopause. Do you understand the mental fatigue from that news? No more babies of my own. I’m barren. I’m on my way down the hill into fugly old woman land. I even called in the newsagents and bought a bingo dabber. So, I thought, if-it’s-okay-with-you,” those words are pronounced with emphasis with a gap in between. This is not good. “We’d have pizza tonight.”

  “Fair enough, love, I’ll go and get changed.” With that, I escape. Best not ask about the man’s night out until after her weekend away.

  I can tell you straight, my other half is not in the menopause. She is most definitely suffering from pre-menstrual tension right now. Thank fuck she’s off to see her sister. She can put up with her evil. All I did was ask where my socks were…

  “Dora?”

  “Just a minute, hun, while I put my lippy on.”

  She comes into the room. “Yes?”

  I hold up some odd socks. “Do you know where the other ones to these are?”

  She shrugs. “They’ll be in the wash. I’ve told you before, when I put washing in the machine I don’t check to see if your socks have their twin. I just put a load in. So they’ll come out with the next lot.”

  “But these have been missing for a few weeks now.”

  “Well, you put them in the washing basket, and I take them out, wash them, and put them in the pile, so they’re somewhere. You must be matching them wrong.”

  “I’m not. You must have dropped them somewhere.”

  “I haven’t.” She puts her hands on her hips.

  “Well, where are they then?” I turn my palms up towards her.

  Her jaw tightens. “I’ve told you, they’ll be in the wash.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “I don’t know how you manage to lose my socks. It’s a gift.”

  “Oh, who cares?”

  “Sorry?”

  Dora rolls her eyes at me. “Why are we having a massive conversation about socks? Who gives a fuck? Wear odd ones. Throw them away. Buy some more. Wait for the rest of the washing. I.Do.Not.Give. A. Fuck. About. Your. Socks.” She starts pacing. “I’m going away for a lovely weekend, and you start a fight about socks before I go. My probable menopause got approximately 3.6 seconds of your time versus your fucking socks which have taken up ten minutes of my life. You hear that? Ten minutes of my life wasted by Your. Fucking. Socks. We could have had a shag before I left. I could have read. I could have had an extra coffee, but no. Socks. Is this what my middle-age is? Laundry? Kill me now.”

  She grabs the socks out of my hand.

  “W
hat are you doing?”

  “I’m going to knot them together and hang myself.”

  I snatch them off her. “Oh, is that the time? I’d better get you dropped off at the train station.”

  “Shit.” Her face enthuses as she realises it’s time to set off. “Oh, I’m so excited.”

  Just like that her personality has changed and pleasant Dora is here. She spends the car journey telling me how she’s in an apartment above Waterstones. I feel like saying. ‘I. Do. Not. Give. A. Fuck. About. Your. Books.’ But hey, in a few minutes I’m flying solo for the weekend. My music room and cans of beer await.

  I give her a kiss as she leans over and then she’s out of the car, wheeling her suitcase into the train station, and I turn my radio up loud and sing all the way home.

  Chapter Four

  Beth

  I’m being treated like a precious princess. Some people would find it suffocating, but I think it’s sweet. Anyway, I owe it to Leo to enjoy this pregnancy as much as I can, seeing as he missed out on the last one. I’m nine weeks pregnant now, and thankfully, I don’t have any morning sickness. If it wasn’t for the test stick showing a positive result and the rise in my sense of smell, I could imagine I’d dreamt the whole thing. The smells of the kitchen at work can be a little overwhelming at the moment, but the fact that I’m not feeling sick means I’ve been able to keep my, sorry, our secret so far.

  Leo and I proposed to each other at Christmas and with us having the baby we’ve decided to arrange a secret wedding. I’m about to send out invites for what our family and friends believe is an engagement party. Then, when they turn up, they’ll discover it’s our wedding. It’s been really difficult not telling Cam. I’m bursting to tell her. She’s known most things about my life and been there throughout the joy and heartaches, but when it comes to Leo, there are some things I have to keep to myself.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” Leo strolls into our bedroom carrying a wooden tray complete with a glass of milk, toast, and a bowl of fruit salad. He’s wearing only his lounge joggers. The waistband rides low. I stare at a six-pack and Malteser runners. I wish I had some Maltesers right now. I lick my lips.

  “Where’s Trey?” I ask. Our almost four-year-old son is unusually quiet.

  “He’s still fast asleep.”

  “Confess. You’ve drugged him haven’t you because it’s Saturday.”

  “He looks so peaceful.”

  “Yeah, wait until he’s awake after his bumper sleep.”

  “Hmm, well he’s not awake right now so how are you feeling?” Leo slides back the covers and gets in bed.

  “I’m feeling hungry.”

  “Yeah, well hurry up and finish that breakfast.” His hand slides across the sheets and then underneath my top where he strokes my skin, his fingers trail upwards until he cups one of my breasts in his hands.

  I lift up the sheet and spy the bulge in his trousers.

  “You know later?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “Will you buy me a box of Maltesers?”

  Leo gives me a quizzical look. “Anything my Baby Mama wants.”

  “I promise it’ll be worth your while,” I inform him. Then I make light work of finishing my breakfast so that I can start eating Leo.

  Chapter Five

  Lindsay

  “Bleuuurrrrrgggghhh.” Every morning is the bloody same. I lie down on the cold bathroom floor for a minute, letting my sweating, clammy body cool down and rest. I’m thirteen weeks pregnant. I thought this shit stopped at twelve?

  “You alright, Linds?” Tyler hovers at the door.

  I nod and he moves away. Of course I’m not fucking alright. I keep puking everything up. I’m sick at least five times a day at the moment. I’m knackered to the point I can barely keep my eyes open, and my skin has erupted as if I’m a teenager all over again. But if I say I’m not alright, he’ll come into the bathroom and hover there. I want to be left to throw up in peace.

  After a few minutes, I get up from the floor and splash cold water on my face. Then I brush my teeth.

  Now I’m starving and really fancy some cheesy wotsits. This is ridiculous. Pregnancy is ridiculous.

  I bang my chest on my way through the bathroom door and I want to cry. My breasts are so painful. They feel hard as rocks. I have to keep my bra on all the time as I think I’d pass out if they swung loose.

  I stand next to my bed. Get dressed, or go back to bed? Sod it. It’s not a work day. Bed it is. I crawl under the covers and I’m out in seconds.

  When I wake, two more hours have passed. Sitting up in bed I realise I feel so much better for that extra sleep. I reckon I could eat some breakfast now. I wrap myself in my dressing gown and make my way downstairs.

  I walk through to the lounge, where Tyler is, for a change (heavy sarcasm here!), on the computer, no doubt making edits to his latest video.

  “Hey, Linds, you lazy lump. Feeling better?”

  “Yeah, a bit.”

  I walk through to the kitchen and open the fridge. There’s no milk.

  “Tyler.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s the milk?”

  His voice booms back. “I was really thirsty last night. I drank it.”

  I sigh and sit at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. I can’t do this. I can’t have a baby. I already have one sitting in the living room. How am I going to juggle a baby, a job and Tyler? I love the man to bits but a fully functioning adult he isn’t.

  I put my head around the living room door. “Could you go and get some more?”

  “Yeah. If you write me a list, I’ll do the supermarket run later. Just need to edit this right now. Only there are people waiting for it.”

  People. The fans of his channels on YouTube. I can’t complain because it’s his side job. He’s making money from paid advertising links and has been asked to write a book. It’s money for our future. Plus he’s still working full-time at Smiths. But what about this person who’s waiting? Standing here growing a baby and wanting a drink of milk? It’s easier to go myself. I head upstairs, quickly dress and then coat on and bag in hand, I head to the corner shop for a pint of milk. The brisk February air hits me as I stroll down the street and my resentment towards Ty fades as I breathe in the cool air and feel more awake. We’ll get there. I just need to get him organised. Something his mother tried for twenty-five years, but I push that thought to the back of my mind as I walk into the shop.

  I pick up two separate two-pint plastic bottles of milk. I’m going to write my name on one so that I know there’s milk when I want some. I spot a Twix and realise at that moment I’d kill someone to eat one. There’s a multipack of ten fingers so I decide I may as well go for that as it’s better value. I can’t wait, so I open the packet, take out a finger and start to eat it as I wait near the till to pay.

  The assistant deals with the people in front of me and then it’s my turn.

  “Afternoon.”

  “Afternoon. Just these please.”

  Why do we say things like that? Isn’t it obvious? I’d have asked for something else otherwise.

  I start to feel a bit lightheaded and clammy. Oh God, no. Not in the corner shop.

  I look around for a receptacle should I need one. I can’t spot anything I could buy, like a bucket.

  “Can I have a carrier bag please?” I ask quickly.

  Then I clamp my mouth shut.

  “Yes love, I’m putting your shopping in one. No charge here like the bloody supermarkets.”

  I shake my head, trying to explain what I mean with my eyes. It doesn’t work.

  “You don’t want your shopping packing?”

  It’s no use. I pick up the bowl on the counter where customers are asked to leave spare change for charity and I vomit into it. The assistant looks at me in horror.

  “I’m sorry. Pregnant” I tell him. I throw a five-pound note at him, grab my shopping and run from the shop all the way back home.


  I march into the lounge, red-faced and panting and throw the remaining Twix at Tyler. “Here. I don’t want them.”

  “Oh, thanks love. I was getting a bit peckish.”

  “This.” I wave one of the milk cartons around, “Is my milk. If you touch it, I will kill you.”

  “Erm, okay. Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” I wave my hand in the air. I see Tyler’s eyes widen. “I threw up on the corner shop counter in front of the assistant. I now hate bloody Twix.” My voice climbs higher with every word. “I had to buy my own milk.”

  Tyler jumps to his feet and grabbing my shoulders, steers me towards the sofa. “Sit down, Linds. I told you I’d do the shopping. Now, I’ll get you a glass of your milk.”

  I look at the plastic bottle now in his hand and my stomach lurches. “Can I have a glass of water instead?”

  I hate being pregnant.

  Tyler

  It’s teatime, and once again Lindsay is asleep, this time on the sofa. It’s like she’s been invaded by an alien. I honestly don’t know what to do to help her. She gets hungry, eats, pukes, then eats again. She can’t eat something fast enough, and then three seconds later she can’t stand it, (usually after throwing it up). There’s so much food in the house that she’s bought and now won’t eat that I’ll probably match her pound for pound weight gain wise at this rate. She can’t keep her eyes open. I don’t know how she’s going to manage to keep working if this doesn’t stop soon. She says she keeps having to dash off the shop floor. In the meantime, I can’t work all the hours I do and try to run a YouTube business. Dylan’s right. I need an assistant. So I phone home.