He is freshly showered, his work clothes clean, his cologne crisp. He smells to me of a past life I feel guilty for missing, sometimes. He has time for everything – to have breakfast and caffeinate, to wash and shave and linger in front of the mirror, to spend more than a millisecond picking out his clothes.
I look down at our baby, feeling my heart swell at the sight of her in her little koala-print sleepsuit, a gift from Lola and Giles.
‘Can you clean up a bit today?’ Lawrence says. He goes to stand in front of the mirror by the door, pushing a hand through his hair before carefully peeling a whitening strip from his teeth. He discards it and smacks his lips, pats an eyebrow into place with a fingertip. ‘It can’t make you feel very good, living in squalor.’
I stare at him for a long time, trying wildly to remember all my reasons for having wanted to be with him in the first place. Fordesiring him enough that nothing else mattered. And missing Josh so heavily that every other choice seemed somehow weightless.
He catches my eye in the mirror. ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’
Okay, I think.Okay, then, I will tell you. ‘Well, she feeds every ninety minutes, Lawrence, I’m doing ten nappy changes a day, she hates being put down, I’m so tired I’m genuinely worried I could fall asleep and crush her to death, I can’t remember the last time I ate a vegetable and my body hasn’t felt like my own for I don’t know how long. But sure. Let’s talk about the dirty dishes.’
‘And yet you still have time to draw.’ He picks up my sketchbook as though it’s evidence of a crime. ‘You have time to do this.’
‘Yes. For ten minutes here and there, because it helps me to feel half-human.’
‘Call me crazy,’ he says, ‘but I think it might benefit our daughter – and you – if you used that time more productively.’
‘Well, thanks, I’m in desperate need of tips on productivityandparenting right now, Lawrence.’
But I know the anger I am feeling is not actually directed at Lawrence. It is at myself, for knowing things would turn out this way – because Ididknow – and choosing to ignore it.
He holds up his hands, as if he is the one being attacked. ‘I’m just saying. It’s been four months. I thought we’d be back to some sort of normality by this point. Christ, you don’t even let me touch you.’
Until now, I’ve been eager to assure everyone that Lawrence is a good father, perhaps because he is the kind of guy who naturally inspires doubt. And it hasn’t felt like a lie: he does change nappies and take the baby as soon as he’s home, winding her and playing with her and bathing her, even driving herround the block at midnight in his car to get her to settle. He does try, with Emma.
But he no longer tries with me.
And being a good father, I am starting to realise, is not only about the baby.
‘You know I’m still in pain,’ I say, my emotions like steam inside me, building, building. ‘Why would you—’
‘Don’t twist my words. It’s not just about that.’
‘I think it is,’ I say, because the truth is, I know Lawrence. I always have. But I wouldn’t admit it, because I couldn’t face up to what being attracted to him meant about me.
He looks at me for a long time. The skin above his collar has turned red. ‘It’s fine if you don’t want me, Rachel. Whatever. But the truth is, I don’t want you either, when you’re like this.’
‘When I’m like this. A new mother, trying to keep our daughter alive.’
I see the exact moment at which his temper ignites. I know it so well, I could almost count it down. The flaming skin. The sudden charge to his eyes. The flattened lips and rigid jaw. ‘Don’t be so fucking dramatic. Millions do it, every day. You need toget it together, Rachel.’
Suddenly, the warm weight of my daughter in my arms feels like everything on earth I want to fight for. Sanity and wellbeing, happiness, calm.
I think back to what I whispered to her in the hospital, when she was mere minutes old.I promise I will be the best mother I can be to you. Always.
And my heart is remembering, too, what my father once told me.Sometimes, staying means holding out for changes that will never come. Accepting something that is irretrievably broken, and losing yourself in the process.
‘Lawrence . . . I think you should leave.’
‘Don’t worry, I am.’ He grabs his car keys. ‘I’m already late.’
‘No.’
The room falls silent, the space between us changing colour, getting darker and yet lighter as I finally say what needs to be said.
‘I mean,leave. This isn’t working.’
Lawrence shows no emotion – no sadness or surprise, nothing resembling regret. Instead, he clears his throat, scratches a spot of skin just below his ear, and says, ‘Well, I guess one of us had to say it. I’ve been thinking the same thing. For weeks, actually.’
