‘The main thing, as we’ve agreed,’ he says, as though speaking to a child, ‘is to keep Marisa calm and happy and—’
‘And stable, yes I know.’
A swell of frustration in her chest. Jake stops mopping and looks at her.
‘Youarestressed. Mum was right.’
Her throat contracts.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘I just meant—’
‘So you’ve been talking to your mother about me?’
As a couple, they rarely argue. There seems little point. On the odd occasion that she is unreasonable, Jake meets her with placidness and the situation is defused and she does the same for him. She has never understood it when other couples admit they argue vociferously and claim it as evidence of their passion. But now she is furious. She can sense herself about to say something irreversible.
Jake is silent.
‘Isaid, have you been talking to your mother about me?’
He glares at her and she is shocked by the anger she sees in his face.
‘Yes, for fuck’s sake, of course I’ve been talking to her. She’s mymother. She’s worried about me – about us.’
‘How kind,’ Kate says. ‘But I don’t need her concern.’
She stands, holding the wine glass so tightly she wonders if she might snap the stem.
‘You see, this is just what I mean,’ he says, still sitting on the bench. He has clenched his hands at either end of the towel around his neck. His knuckles are white. ‘I can’t say anything without you flying off the handle.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes! And Mum’s noticed it. She’s worried you’re too involved, too obsessive, that it’s not good for Marisa—’
‘I’m themother,’ Kate screams.
A window slams in the housing estate opposite and then, all at once, the stairwell lights snap on simultaneously as they are programmed to do at the same time each day. The garden is pitched into a ghoulish half-light.
‘Of course I’m going to be involved!’ She notices with surprise that she is still shouting. ‘Obsessive? Bullshit. Our surrogate attacked me! She had a breakdown and thought you were together! I think I’ve earned the right to be concerned, don’t you?’
‘Jesus, Kate, keep your voice down. The neighbours will hear.’
‘Oh fuck off,’ she says, walking inside the kitchen and slamming the wine glass onto the table so that red drops stain the wood. She knows, instinctively, what Annabelle will have been saying about her: that she’s unhinged, that this drive for a baby has made her lose perspective, that Jake must be careful.
She remembers a phone conversation with Annabelle a few days ago. Kate had the gritted teeth tension she always got when she saw Annabelle’s name flash up on the mobile screen. She usually called Jake, and only tried Kate if she couldn’t get hold of him, so Kate had answered saying, ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid, Annabelle.’
‘What? Oh, no, Kate. I was calling to talk to you, actually.’
The older woman’s voice was clear on the other end of the line, vowels tinkling against consonants like ice cubes in a gin and tonic.
‘OK. How … nice,’ Kate said, checking her watch to see how long would be polite to wait until she could draw this unwanted interruption to a close. ‘Is everything OK? Is Marisa OK?’
‘Yes, she’s thriving,’ Annabelle said, and Kate felt it as a rebuke. Why couldn’t she just have said ‘fine’?
‘I wanted to see howyouwere,’ Annabelle continued, placing emphasis on the you, as though it was an unparalleled act of kindness on her behalf.
‘That’s … nice,’ Kate repeated. ‘I’m pretty good, thank you.’
