‘Come out for a walk in Vicky Park,’ Carrie texts one afternoon. ‘Just a really, really short one. Like to the first tree we see and back.’
I’d rather nail my thigh to a fire. ‘The thing is, there’s this episode ofCome Dine With Me, and I’ve been following it all week,’ I reply. And then, a minute later, as if to hammer home the point, I add: ‘It’s in Scunthorpe.’
A small part of me shamefully wants her, or anyone, tocome over and bang the door down with boomingly stern knocks, the way they do in movies, and scoop me up in a hug. Instead, she replies, ‘If that’s what you want x.’
A few days later, the blue of the box on the side locker is the first thing I notice. Johnny is on the bed, reading but checking me subtly for a reaction.
‘Jesus, I’ve not seen these in a long time,’ I say, picking up the box of condoms: ‘Extra safe’.
‘God, we didn’t even use the extra-safe ones when we started going out.’ I smile weakly.
We have spent so long trying to get his… guys up there, and here we are, back using condoms like those first few months. The distance between then and now makes my skull feel heavy.
I start to cry when I think of why they are there.
‘I know.’ Johnny is off the bed, hugging me. ‘But it will be OK.’
As I heave and leave globs of snot on Johnny’s shoulder, I’m trying to chase the feeling, make some sense of it. What am I crying for? Is it for us? For Ricey? For the future?
‘They’re not all that bad, are they?’ Johnny says, gesturing towards the box.
‘If memory serves,’ I tell him. ‘Why, what about for you?’
‘Well, they’re a bit like taking a shower with your socks on, I guess.’ At this, I laugh.
‘We could road test them?’ Johnny offers. I want to tell him that I’d rather drink goat piss in this exact moment, but I’m too tired to argue. I shrug in acquiescence. The sound of the plastic film being ripped off enthusiastically only seems to break my heart.
In the main, I have done almost too impressive a job at convincing Johnny that I am pretty good, actually. I’vestopped going on at him about turning the flat into a non-staffroom. He went back to his tech job with little in the way of prompting, leaving me to stew uninterrupted in closed-curtain afternoons where I occasionally sniff my armpits, which smell as sour as I feel, and wonder how it ever came the hell to this.
A few weeks ago, when we arrived home from the hospital, I could hear Johnny on the phone to his mother through the gossamer-thin walls of the flat. He has a particularly gentle way of talking with her, but this was something on another level. He was monosyllabic. Muted. The absolute sadness of it. Even more sad than when he was telling her about all those single lines on the other pregnancy tests.
‘It’s what she wanted,’ he then tells her over and over again, through half-choked sobs, ‘No funeral.’
I hate that my fingers still feel the phantom smoothness of brand-new baby skin: skin that I never even got to touch. An ad for fabric softener involving a mother and her infant– the gurgles, the smiles, the silly twinkly music that seems to somehow convey human completeness– threatens to send me skidding right over the precipice of sanity.
Daytime is hard, and night-time is only a little less so. I walk up and down Church Street, trying to look into cars at the faces of drivers who are totally oblivious to me.You’re so lucky I didn’t walk out in front of you just there, I think more than once. I hurry past the coffee shops, averting my head so I don’t even see so much as a buggy wheel.
Soon, the thoughts of rebuilding myself, like an architect armed with a blueprint, consume me. And it’s easier than I thought. I create a new Facebook profile with my middle name. Essie Marie might have no friends yet, but Essie Marie is the me in a parallel universe, the person whois still unmarried and whisking her way around Soho. She doesn’t have the same friends as me, nor will she ever. She posts links to articles fromJezebelandThe Atlantic. She likes offbeat Greek comedies and shares links to obscure indie songs. Her Facebook page is a blank enough slate, but she is a cool girl, and one I would want to be around.
More importantly, ‘Essie Marie’ on Facebook hasn’t gone through any of what Esther Green has.
After a while, Johnny stops putting up with my newfound devotion to Court TV, or, for that matter, my doctoral-level knowledge ofAmerica’s Next Top Model. I’m supine on the sofa in front of a feast of cheap white wine, crisps and a Galaxy bar, all the cellulite heroes. Johnny surveys it from the doorway.
‘This is proper fucking depression, Esther,’ he says.
‘It’s not,’ I assure him. ‘It’s… a break. Just a few days off. I think I’m owed that.’
‘What about seeing someone about all of this?’
I pull the blanket tighter around me. Johnny knows better than to needle me.
‘We could do it together, maybe?’ he asks.
‘…’
I bite delicately into a Kettle Chip, hoping that the crunch will telegraph my absolute indifference to that.
Something boils up in him. ‘Well, suit yourself. But then you always fucking do, don’t you?’
