‘Actually, I lied earlier – the crunch point wasn’t with Britta at all.’ Her sudden words, almost lost on the wind that battered the hill, were laden with sorrow. ‘It . . . came when I was in London. That’s when everything broke.’ She lifted her chin higher. ‘I came out here to try and work things through. Find a way to goback. A way to go back to my life with Patrick and all that it is, but I can’t go back.’ Another tear slipped down her face. ‘There’s nowhere to go back to.’
She remained still, not turning towards him. Remembering the brief touch of comfort she offered him in the pub, he wove his fingers between hers and gave them a squeeze. Somehow he knew she didn’t want him to talk. He recognised that point where the dam burst. It didn’t matter who he was, he just happened to be there when the water came flooding out.
‘I found out I was pregnant. Not planned.’ Her voice held cynical heaviness.
He stilled; that wasn’t what he was expecting at all. What the hell did you say to that?
‘Definitely not planned. Patrick was even more shocked than I was.’ Ella turned her head, giving him a bleak twisted smile, before turning back to the vista before them. ‘I figured that at our age it was probably the next step. I hadn’t given the children thing a lot of thought, I just assumed that it would happen one day.
‘One day turned up out of the blue. Completely out of the blue, but the minute I thought I might be, God, I was so excited. Funny – I was on my way to work, grabbed my usual mochaccino, took one sip and thought I’d throw up, which was really weird. I’ve been drinking them every morning for the last five years. You don’t suddenly go off something without a very good reason.’
A wistful expression lit her face. ‘I couldn’t quite believe it, because it wasn’t planned. I didn’t tell anyone, just in case I was wrong. In case it tempted providence. I remember going to buy the testing kit.’ She held up a hand. ‘I was shaking like a leaf when I opened the packaging.’
She gripped his hand tighter. ‘When the line turned blue, I thought my heart would burst. The enormity of it seemed so huge. Me, having a baby. I couldn’t wait to tell Patrick.’
She swallowed hard. ‘It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t feel the same. Even though it was a bit of a surprise, I thought Patrick would think like me, that it was the next step. Logical.’ Her eyebrows creased, meeting in a dark frown. ‘He didn’t. Said it was bourgeois. Not us. People like us didn’t have children. It wouldlimitus.’ Her mouth twisted with terrible weariness. ‘Spouted a whole load of stuff. I presumed it was just the shock at first. That he’d come around. He didn’t.’
Ella turned to Devon, her face haunted with sadness, and then she looked up, watching the gliders for a minute, as if trying to contain her emotion before she went on.
‘He wanted me to have an abortion.’ Her lips quivered. ‘Get rid of it. That’s what he called our baby – “it”. As if the baby were nothing to do with him.’ She shook her head, still in disbelief. ‘When I tried to talk to him about it, when I said I wasn’t sure I could go through with an abortion, he,’ her breath hitched, ‘he told me I was “being far too emotional about it”.’
With his thumb, Devon rubbed her hand. She held herself so still, he was worried that if he put his arm around her or even tried to offer any other comfort, she might shatter like ice.
‘I thought maybe he was right. It was the hormones. So I went for the first appointment.’ Her face creased as if in pain. ‘Except I couldn’t get through the door. I couldn’t do it. I froze. I knew then I wanted to keep the baby.
‘Luckily for him, I miscarried.’ The words, spoken without emotion, cold and blank, dropped like stones.
The grip of her fingers on his tightened but she faced away into the headwind. He could see her swallowing but the words had dried up for a moment. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to offer platitudes. Then, she spoke again.
‘It was only the size of a bean. Who’d have thought there’d be so much blood?’ She laughed mirthlessly, dry and heart-wrenching. ‘No wonder Lady Macbeth got into such a tizz. I had to throw away my favourite pair of jeans.’
He could tell by the tightening of her jawline that she was working hard to hang onto her control. ‘I r-really miss those jeans.’ She winced, her other hand going to her stomach. ‘When you have something, it’s only when it’s gone you realise how much you wanted to keep it. God, I miss those jeans.’
Tears stung his eyes at the heartbreak in her voice, at the way she worked so hard to keep her emotions in check, pretend that she was unharmed by it all. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and offer comfort. It took a lot of effort putting on a face that brave. He knew how damn hard it was and how easily the façade could shatter if someone was kind to you. Staunchly he hung onto her hand as the two of them stood motionless gazing out over the view.
Standing straight and tall she leaned into the headwind, imagining herself like the prow of a ship cutting through the waves. His hand in hers anchored her, when she felt as if her emotions might take flight and leave her rudderless. The fingers interweaved between hers gave her strength. She could weather this, make it through. Patrick’s casual dismissal, so cold, emotionless. Uncaring. How could he not care? For her that loss had slammed into her, leaving her adrift.
With the strong breeze whistling around them on the summit of the Beacon, picking and tossing at her hair, awareness shimmered through her. There was land ahead. The ever-present lump of misery lodged just beneath her heart was still there but it had lost its malignant presence and the threatening sensation that it might overpower her one day.
With a grim twist to her mouth, she tossed her head back, welcoming the fierce slap of the wind. When Patrick had suggested they had a break, she’d clung to that idea as if it might save her. It gave her enough distance to not have to think how much she hated him for not caring. It made her believe that in a few months’ time she could go back and everything would be normal again. She’d have grieved. Her hormones, which Patrick had patiently explained were all over the place, would be righted. She’d see things differently. She’d realise that they were all right as they were. The two of them.
With heartsick sorrow, the knowledge came to rest like a feather gently but surely coming into land: there was no going back. She could never forgive Patrick for not wanting their child. Or forgive him for being able to forget so easily about it once she’d miscarried.
And she would never forget.
It was like trying to get those jeans back. She’d never find a pair quite like them. There’d be others but not the same. She hadn’t wanted a baby but it didn’t mean she didn’t want one at some point in her life. She knew that with a fierce certainty. One day she wanted a family.
She closed her eyes. Despite the eddies and swirls around her, she’d resolved something, achieving close to some sort of equilibrium after being out of kilter for weeks.
‘You know, he didn’t even come to the hospital when I lost the baby. I didn’t tell anyone else. I was ashamed.’
‘Ashamed?’
‘Yes. Ashamed that I’d even considered an abortion and that this was my punishment. Ashamed that he felt like that. Ashamed that I didn’t know that his reaction would be like that. Ashamed that I loved someone so . . . so heartless. That I’d got it so wrong with him.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘His relief was palpable. We’d had a lucky escape. He didn’t even try to pretend that hewasn’t relieved. I put on a brave face, I did pretend. Made out it was OK. But it got harder and harder.’
‘But he must have been sympathetic.’
‘Not really. That makes him sound like a bad person. He wasn’t. Just didn’t understand.’ She closed her eyes, suddenly wanting to spill the horrible dirty truth. ‘He got fed up with me feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t help myself. It finally dawned on me that he had no idea one night when we went to a new gallery opening. Gallery 99.’
