She can hear how petulant she sounds and yet she can’t stop herself. Her throat constricts and for one terrible moment she thinks she’s going to throw up, right there in the kitchen, across the Porcelanosa tiles. Malaga beige. Impeccable.
‘You’re ganging up on me!’
‘We’re not.’
He is excruciatingly calm. She is infuriated by it. He reaches out again to graze his fingers against her sleeve.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I definitely don’t want you to feel ganged up on. That’s terrible. We’ll be more considerate.’
‘Stop saying “we”. You’re not my parents.’
He laughs.
‘That we are certainly not.’
His eyes are kind again, crinkled at the corners.
‘As long as you’re OK, and you have everything you need …’ he says. ‘It’s difficult for me to understand what it’s like being pregnant. I’m just a fairly hopeless bloke, when it comes down to it.’
It is her turn to laugh.
‘You’re not. You’re a great bloke.’
‘Not sure about that.’
The light in the kitchen begins to turn. The end of their garden is overlooked by the neighbouring council estate. On the other side of the fence is a tall, dark tower which houses the connecting stairwell for a series of flats. The only windows are small, plastic apertures that open just a few inches – slanted, at an angle – so the tower has the unsettling feel of a checkpoint. Sometimes Marisa imagines men with guns, angling their barrels through the single-glazed slivers, training their crosshairs directly at the house.
She shivers.
‘Cold?’ Jake says.
She shakes her head.
‘Can I have a hug?’ she asks.
His eyes widen. A flush appears on his cheeks. So shecanstill embarrass him, Marisa thinks, she still has that power. He’s so English and so upstanding and decent and so bloody repressed. She’s not asking him to strip off naked and take her over the kitchen counter, is she? A few more seconds pass. He makes a great show of considering her request. It is a joke they share and, like all private jokes between couples, it is never as funny as it first appeared to be.
‘Of course,’ he says.
She folds herself into his chest, inhaling him, and he crosses his arms around her back, holding her close. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel safe. She fits into him exactly – his chin propped on top of her head as if their sizes had specifically been designed to dovetail.
‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he murmurs, and she allows herself to believe him and wraps her arms around his waist, placing her hands in the lower curve of his back. She presses herself closer and then she hears someone cough.
Jake pulls away from her. A strand of her hair gets tangled in his shirt button and she yelps as he jerks away. It takes her a moment to realise what is happening.
‘Sorry,’ comes a voice from behind Marisa’s left shoulder. It is Kate. Of course. Kate. Always there.
‘Marisa was just …’ Jake is spluttering over his words. ‘She was a little upset so I …’ He brushes back his hair. ‘We were hugging.’ He swallows drily, the lump of his Adam’s apple moving down his neck.
‘I can see that,’ Kate says.
Marisa giggles. She can’t help it. Jake is so unnecessarily flustered.
‘He’s really not great with public displays of affection, is he?’
She directs the question to Kate, deciding generously to include her. And then she asks, ‘I thought I’d get Vietnamese for dinner if you want to join?’
‘Sure,’ Kate says, with no enthusiasm.
