And to change, she needed to act. Tonight.
Louise had concluded the meeting and everyone started rising from their chairs, heading out into the chilly evening. It was the first week of October, but it felt more like December. Juliet watched Peter out of the corner of her eye; he rose from his chair slowly, smiling and nodding towards several of the other parish council members who filed outside.
Taking a deep breath, she headed across the room. “Hello, Peter.”
“You areet, Juliet,” Peter answered with one of his slow nods and smiles.
She’d seen a fair bit of Peter over the last two weeks; thanks to Rachel’s determination, they’d become something of a fixture at the Thursday night pub quiz. Juliet had even started to relax a little, answering questions and enjoying herself, although it still felt strange to be sitting there among friends. She always stuck to a single glass of wine.
Peter had also stopped by Tarn House several times for a cup of tea; the first time he’d come by, Juliet had been alone, cleaning the oven, her hair piled on top of her head and yellow rubber gloves up to each elbow. She’d been flustered to see him there, standing at the back door as if it were a usual occurrence, then taking off his mud-caked boots when she, stammering, had invited him in.
She’d gotten stuck, removing the rubber gloves, and Peter had reached over and tugged one off in a gesture that felt—well,suggestive. Of course it wasn’t, Juliet had told herself crossly, but she still could feel herself reacting as she turned away to put the kettle on.
Their conversation had gone in fits and starts, with Juliet needing to fill the silence; Peter had seemed content to simply sit, a mug cradled between his hands.
After a few of these impromptu chats it had become easier simply to talk, and then it had started to feel shockingly natural to have him in her kitchen, chatting about nothing in particular, his sock-clad feet stretched out towards the Aga. Once, at her invitation, he’d removed his wet socks; Juliet had been unsettlingly transfixed by the sight of his knobbly toes.
Part of her relished these changes to her life; another part of her felt how pathetic she was, to be pleased by such small things. And it was that ever-present sense of her own inadequacy that made her even more determined to act.
She’d gone back to the clinic, and suffered through a fertility assessment and its expected results: “limited fertility, but with the proper course of treatment, a pregnancy might be viable.” Now she just needed a dad. A donor.
She’d looked into the banks in the US and Denmark, and realized that going that route was going to cost her thousands of pounds, and make her baby’s father a stranger. Then she remembered what Dr. Allen had asked—Are you going to use an acquaintance’s sperm?—and so now she was here.
“I was wondering,” she said to Peter, her voice just a little too strident, “if you fancied having a drink at the pub.With me.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, which made Juliet feel both nervous and tetchy. Then he nodded. “That’d be areet.”
Juliet nodded back, no more than a jerk of her head, and they headed outside. They didn’t speak as they walked from the village hall to the pub; Juliet could feel everything inside her coiling tighter and tighter.
In the pub Peter said hello to a few people and then asked Juliet what she wanted to drink.
“I’ll buy—,” she began, to which Peter responded with a decisive shake of his head.
“No, you won’t. Now, what will it be? Glass of red?”
“All right,” Juliet relented. She had bigger things to worry about than who bought the drinks.
She found a table in the back corner, the most private one in the place, and sat down with her back to everyone else. She sucked in a breath and told herself she wasn’t actually asking Peter for that much: fifteen minutes and a paper cup. Some sperm. No responsibility, no commitment, nofeelings.
Peter returned with their drinks, a glass of red for her and his usual pint of bitter. He slid onto the chair and raised his glass in a toast. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Juliet heard how nervous she sounded, her voice going up nearly an octave, and she took a sip of wine. Maybe she shouldn’t have picked the pub for this conversation. No matter how private their table, it felt like a very public place for what was going to be a very personal conversation.
But asking Peter in the cozy comfort of her own kitchen would feel much too intimate, as if by inviting him into her house, she was inviting him to share her life. The pub put this meeting on terms she could live with.
“How’s your dad?” she asked, deciding that a few minutes of small talk might smooth the way.
Peter lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Same, I suppose. It’s not going to get any better.”
“You could have some help,” Juliet suggested. “Professionals who come in—”
Peter shook his head. “Dad wouldn’t like that. And we manage areet as it is. He doesn’t wander, and he can look after himself for most of the day. I check on him often enough. Jake helps.”
There was something faintly repressive about Peter’s tone, making Juliet feel that his father had not been a wise choice for a topic of conversation.
“What about you, Juliet?” Peter asked. “Things rolling along?”
“Well. Yes.” She cleared her throat, and then decided there was nothing for it. She’d have to jump right in, after all. “Actually, Peter, I was hoping you could do me a—a favor.”
