I want a cigarette. I really want a cigarette. Can’t have a cigarette. Want a cigarette.
“Hi Sam, how are you?”
Big hug, big smile. Hand moves to my “bump”.
“Ooh! Look, you’re getting so big! How many weeks is it now?”
Thirty. Thirty long weeks without a cigarette. Or a decent drink, for that matter.
“Only ten weeks to go now.”
“Wow. Where has the time gone eh? Only feels like yesterday you were puking up in the loos and falling asleep in the pub at half seven! Ha ha ha!”
Yes, a mere half a year ago. Time just flies by when you’re sat at home crying about the fact that you’ve become a social outcast and none of your clothes fit you any more.
My feet are hurting even though I’m wearing trainers. Everyone else is dressed to the nines, but I couldn’t be bothered to try and squeeze into a smock dress and plaster myself in make-up like a vast over-size fondant fancy. So I’ve got on a loose shirt and some new-ish jogging bottoms. Navy blue. My hair is pulled up into a functional pony tail.
I sit down in a corner and settle in for the duration. I look over at Neil and feel my jealousy rise. He’s the life and soul, as ever, flitting from conversation to conversation, laughing, smiling. He’s got everyone in stitches. A fully paid-up, crystal-winged member of the butterflies’ social club. I hate him.
A predictable trail of visitors come and join me in my dark corner of the room and then leave again. While they prod and poke “it”, they tell me how lucky I am. Share their hopes for future parenthood. Tell me the odd horror story about a friend’s still birth or inability to conceive. All I can think about is how much I’d like to walk up to the bar, cadge a fag off the nearest smoker and order a large vodka and cranberry.
Eventually Neil catches my eye and nods. I suppose my face must tell him all he needs to know about my evening as we sit in the car on the way home. I’m pondering whether it’s better to wear the seatbelt or not . . . what would do more damage – the belt tightening suddenly across my belly or slamming into the dashboard? I shudder.
Neil puts his hand on my knee and squeezes.
“I love you, you know?” he says, simply.
“You shouldn’t. I’m a bad person. I’m ungrateful and I think bad thoughts all the time.”
I am not going to cry. Not again. It’s so dull.
He squeezes a bit more then has to take his hand away to change gear.
I open the glove compartment in front of me and reach in for the packet of Marlboro Lights that have been stashed in there for six months now. I open it quickly and press the cigarette lighter in on the dashboard. Neil looks at me, then looks away again without saying anything. Before I know what I’m doing I’m taking a long, satisfying toke on my cigarette and smoke is billowing out of my nostrils. The pleasure is immeasurable.
I take a second toke then put the cigarette out.
“Last one,” I say. “That’s definitely the last one.”
