One hundred and five. Sephy

Not again! I only just made it to the bathroom, collapsing with my head over the toilet bowl before I brought up what felt like most of the acid in my stomach. It was seven o’clock in the morning and I’d only just woken up, so my stomach was totally empty. And retching on an empty stomach was far worse than vomiting with a full one. My stomach acid stung my nose and made my mouth taste bitter and nasty. And this was about the fifth morning in a row that I’d woken up feeling like last Crossmas’s leftover turkey.

Only when I was reasonably sure that I could get to my feet without keeling over did I stand up. I cleaned my teeth and gargled for at least a minute with mouthwash. But I still felt wretched. I made my way out of my bedroom and headed downstairs, feeling very sorry for myself. As if everything that’d happened to me in the last five weeks wasn’t enough, now I’d caught a tummy bug.

The last five weeks . . .

After I’d regained consciousness, it seemed like every doctor in the northern hemisphere had prodded and poked me and given me test after humiliating test until I felt more like a specimen in a lab than a human being. And the police had asked me question after embarrassing question.

Especially about what my kidnappers had done to me.

‘Whatever happened, you mustn’t feel it was your fault. You were powerless. You can tell us everything that happened, we’ll understand . . .’ The policewoman had smiled and hugged and tried to get me to confide in her until all I wanted to do was slap her senseless. She interviewed me in a room with a huge mirror on one wall and kept stealing quick glances at it when I wouldn’t answer her questions. I mean, did she really think I was that stupid? Jeez! I knew a one-way mirror when I saw one.

I had nothing to say to them. I had nothing to say to anyone about my ordeal in the cabin in the woods. I didn’t even want to think about it. It hurt my head and stung my eyes and broke my heart to think about it. Not the kidnapping so much, although that’d been bad enough. But Callum . . . I couldn’t bear to think about Callum. And yet every thought seemed to find its own way back to him. He was never out of my mind. And it was driving me crazy.

I entered the kitchen and made myself some dry toast and a cup of weak blackcurrant tea. It helped. A bit. A very little bit.

‘Oh, there you are,’ Minnie entered the kitchen to sit opposite me at the breakfast bar. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes. Apart from this tummy bug?’

‘You’ve been sick for the last couple of mornings, haven’t you?’ Minnie frowned.

‘How d’you know?’

‘I’ve heard you calling on the porcelain telephone!’

I raised an eyebrow and carried on eating my toast. I wasn’t in the mood for any of my sister’s so-called jokes.

‘When’re you going to talk about what happened to you when you were kidnapped?’ Minnie asked.

‘Never.’

‘You shouldn’t bottle it up inside . . .’

‘Back off, Minnie. OK?’ I snapped. ‘My being kidnapped won’t reflect badly on you in any manner, shape or form so you can leave me alone now.’

‘What’re you talking about? I’m concerned about you.’

‘Yeah, right!’ I took another bite of toast.

‘What happened to you out there?’ Minnie asked softly.

‘I was kidnapped. I escaped. Now you know as much as I do.’ I chewed my last piece of toast and swallowed it down with a sip of rapidly cooling fruit tea.

‘Sephy, are . . . are you pregnant?’

‘What’re you talking about? Of course I’m . . . not . . .’ The words trailed away to nothing. I stared at my sister, in a daze.

‘So you could be?’ Minnie said grimly. ‘Who was it? One of the kidnappers?’

‘I can’t be . . . I can’t be pregnant . . .’ I whispered, aghast.

‘Who was it, Sephy? You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.’

I sprang up and raced from the room, like if I could only run fast enough I could leave my sister’s words far behind me.

Come on, Sephy! Just do it. The pregnancy test doesn’t work unless you actually use it! Just do it. And one minute later, you’ll know. If it stays white you’re not pregnant. You’ll have ducked a bullet and no one need ever know. And if it turns blue . . .

For heaven’s sake, do it. Anything’s better than this not knowing.

I picked up the leaflet and read the instructions again. It seemed straightforward enough. One indicator stick included. Just add urine. Nothing to it. So get on with it. I took a deep breath and followed the instructions. Which was silly of me, because I knew I wasn’t pregnant.

I couldn’t be. Not now. Not like this.

I placed the now-wet indicator stick on top of the toilet cistern whilst I washed my hands.

All I had to do now was wait. Just one minute to go.

The longest minute of my life. I sat down on the closed toilet lid, my back to the indicator stick as I counted up to sixty. I stopped at fifty-nine, unable to even think the next number, never mind say it.

I’m not pregnant. Just because I’ve been a bit sick in the mornings . . . That doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a delayed reaction to everything that’s happened to me over the last few weeks. That’s all. Steeling myself, I turned around, my eyes closed. I opened my eyes slowly. I didn’t even have to pick it up. I could see its colour very clearly.

What am I going to do? God help me, what am I going to do?

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 571