For some reason – delirium, probably – Aruba floats into my mind. The holiday Josh wanted to take us on, three years ago. The kind of indulgence I’ve never experienced in my life. I fantasise about it sometimes. Diving into a warm blue sea. Sleeping spreadeagled in bed for as long as I want. Ingesting, at the very least, food that contains some vitamins.
I realise my worst fears are coming true. That having a baby is threatening to crush Lawrence and me, the shape of our future collapsing fast, like clay spinning out of control on a potter’s wheel.
Is this how it was for my parents?
I haven’t dared to ask Dad yet, not in so many words. Because I think a big part of me would rather not know. Denial to me right now is survival. Sometimes, it is all that carries me through the days.
Lawrence leaves because he can, because he does not have a newborn attached to his body. He slams the door with such force it makes a hairline crack in the wall, and Emma cries so hard, I feel guilt like I’ve never known.
42.
Josh
August 2004
At the pub, Giles says, ‘By the way, I’ve heard it’s not all roses between Rachel and her man. Lo says they’re fighting. Like, a lot.’
I stare at him. ‘What do you mean, fighting?’
‘Nothing physical. Just... they row. Quite badly, Lo reckons.’
I know arguing’s pretty common when you’ve just had a baby. But still, I’m concerned. Rachel and I would fall out from time to time, like any couple. Yet I’d have struggled to describe any of those disagreements as fights.
Later, I send her a message. Because I need to know.
Part of me expects radio silence. Mere minutes later, though, she calls.
It is the first time we have spoken since she had the baby.
‘Congratulations,’ I say softly, though it comes out slightly falsetto, because my mouth is so dry.
There is a long silence. So long, in fact, that I begin to wonder if she has butt-dialled me by accident.
I am sitting topless on the edge of my bed, a fan grinding away because it’s so damn hot. Even now this room still feels like ours, filled as it is with little hints of the life we once shared. The duvet cover we picked out. The chest of drawers we butchered together without looking at the instructions, stripping every single screwhead as we went. The curtain pole we put up with no spirit level, so there’s always a gap when they’re drawn.
Eventually, Rachel speaks. ‘Thank you for your card. It was lovely.’
‘Sorry I haven’t called before now. But I thought it best to... you know.’
‘I know.’
I last saw her at Easter, in a beer garden a few weeks before Emma was born. She looked radiantly happy. At one point, Lawrence put his hand on her belly and made eye contact with me at exactly the same time, which felt childish at best, creepy at worst. I left pretty soon after that, to deprive him of the rise it was clear he was seeking.
‘How’s everything going? How’s Emma?’ My voice keels a little as I say her name.
‘She’s perfect,’ she whispers. She is eating something. I don’t ask what, though my money’s on a Tunnock’s Teacake.
I might as well be straight with her. ‘Lola said—’
‘That was just a stupid row about... God, I can’t even remember. Formula, or something.’ She sighs heavily, as if this isn’t the first time she’s had to defend Lawrence.
‘But serious enough for you to tell Lola?’
‘She caught me at a bad moment. Lo and Polly and Ingrid... they’re not exactly the I-heart-Lawrence fan club. I assume you’ve heard.’
I hadn’t, actually. Though I’m hardly surprised. Temperamentally speaking, from what I can work out, the man is the equivalent of dropping a hairdryer in a bath.
For some reason I want to ask if the baby was planned. But I don’t, because I know it is none of my business.
