‘Hi,’ I greet him. ‘How was your day?’
‘Fine.’ Dan gives a shrug. ‘Yours?’
‘Some pencil-pusher is coming to boss us about,’ I say gloomily. ‘Mrs Kendrick’s nephew. He wants to “take an interest”, apparently. Or, you know, shut us down and build condos.’
Dan looks up, alarmed. ‘Did he say that? Jesus.’
‘Well, no,’ I admit. ‘But he said we had to change, or else.’ I try to convey the menace of those two words with my tone of voice, but Dan’s features have already relaxed.
‘He probably meant “or else no Christmas party”,’ he says. ‘You want some?’ He pours me a glass of wine before I can even answer. As he slides it across the table, I eye him, and then the bottle. It’s half-empty. And Dan seems preoccupied.
‘Hey,’ I say cautiously. ‘Are you OK?’
For a few moments, Dan just stares into space. He’s drunk, I suddenly realize. I bet he went to the pub after work. He sometimes does, if I’m going to be out and Karen’s on duty. And then he came home and started on the wine.
‘I sat at work today,’ he says at last. ‘And I thought: Am I really going to do this for another sixty-eight years? Build offices, sell offices, build offices, sell offices, build offices—’
‘I get it.’
‘—sell offices.’ He finally looks at me. ‘Forever.’
‘It’s not forever.’ I laugh, trying to lighten things. ‘And you don’t have to work till your deathbed.’
‘It feels like forever. We’re immortal, that’s what we are, Sylvie.’ He eyes me moodily. ‘And you know what the immortals are?’
‘Heroic?’ I venture.
‘Fucked-up. That’s what.’
He reaches across the table, pulls the wine bottle towards himself and pours a fresh glass.
OK, this is not good.
‘Dan, are you having a midlife crisis?’ I say, before I can stop myself.
‘How can I be having a midlife crisis?’ Dan erupts. ‘I’m nowhere near my midlife! Nowhere near! I’m in the bloody foothills!’
‘But that’s good!’ I say emphatically. ‘We’ve got so much time.’
‘But what are we going to do with it, Sylvie? How are we going to fill the endless, soulless years of mindless drone work? Where’s the joy in our lives?’ He looks around the kitchen with a questing gaze, as though it might be in a jar labelled ‘joy’, next to ‘turmeric’.
‘Like I said this morning! We just need to plan. Take control of our lives. Vincit qui se vincit,’ I add proudly. ‘It means: He conquers who conquers himself.’ (I googled it at work, earlier on, when it was my turn on the computer.)
‘Well, how do we conquer ourselves?’
‘I don’t know!’
I take a slug of wine and it tastes so good that I take another. I get some plates out of the cupboard, ladle chicken stew out of our slow cooker and sprinkle it with coriander while Dan reaches in the drawer for cutlery.
‘Let alone … you know.’ He dumps the cutlery heavily on to the table.
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘I don’t!’
‘Sex,’ he says, as though it’s obvious.
For God’s sake. Sex again? Really?
Why does it always come back to sex with Dan? I mean, I know sex is important, but there are other things in life too, things he doesn’t even seem to see, or appreciate. Like curtain tie-backs. Or The Great British Bake-Off.
‘What do you mean, “sex”?’ I counter.
‘I mean—’ He breaks off.
‘What?’
‘I mean, sex with the same person forever. And ever. And ever. For a million years.’
There’s silence. I bring our plates over to the table, put them down and then pause, my mind circling uneasily. Is that how he sees it? A million-year marriage? I’m remembering Tilda, too: ‘Isn’t “till death us do part” a bit over-ambitious? Isn’t it a bit of a gamble?’
I eye Dan, this man I’ve gambled on. It seemed like good odds at the time. But now, here he is behaving as though sex with me forever is some sort of punishment, and I feel like the odds are slipping.
‘I suppose we could have a sabbatical or something,’ I say, without even knowing what I quite mean.
Dan lifts his head to look at me. ‘A sabbatical?’
‘A relationship sabbatical. Time apart. Be with other people. That could be one of our decades.’ I shrug, trying to sound cool. ‘I mean, it’s a thought.’
I’m sounding so much braver than I feel. I don’t want Dan to shag other people for a decade. I don’t want him to be with anyone except me. But nor do I want him to feel like he’s in an orange jumpsuit staring down the barrel of a life sentence.
Dan is just staring at me incredulously. ‘So, what, we talk Italian for a decade, we shag other people for a decade and then – what was the last one? Move to South America?’
‘Well, I don’t know!’ I retort defensively. ‘I’m just trying to be helpful!’
‘Do you want a sabbatical?’ Dan focuses on me more closely. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
‘No!’ I exclaim in frustration. ‘I just want you to be happy! I thought you were happy. But now you want to leave us—’
‘No I don’t!’ he says hotly. ‘You’re the one who wants me to leave! Would you like me to do that now?’
‘I don’t want you to leave!’ I practically shriek.
How has this conversation gone so wrong? I drain my wine glass and reach for the bottle, rewinding back in my mind. OK, maybe I slightly jumped to conclusions. But maybe he did, too.
We eat silently for a while and I take several more gulps of wine, hoping it might straighten out my mind. As I do so, a warm sensation creeps over me and I gradually start to feel calmer. Although by ‘calmer’ I really mean ‘drunk’. The two Proseccos I had at the talk are catching up with me, but I still drain my wine glass a second time. This is essential. This is remedial.
‘I just want a long and happy marriage,’ I say finally, my voice a little slurred. ‘And for us not to be bored or feel like we’re in a jumpsuit, scratching tallies on the wall. And I don’t want a sabbatical,’ I add defiantly. ‘As for sex, we’ll just have to …’ I shrug hopelessly. ‘I mean, I could always buy some new underwear …’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dan shakes his head. ‘I didn’t mean to … Sex with you is really good, you know that.’
Really good?
I would have preferred mind-blowingly awesome, but let’s not pursue that right now.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘We’re inventive, right? We can be happy, right?’
‘Of course we can be happy. Oh God, Sylvie. The truth is, I love you so much, I love the girls so much …’ Dan seems to have sailed straight from belligerent-drunk to sentimental-drunk. (I have a word for that too: wallowish.) ‘The day we had the twins, my life just … it just …’ Dan’s eyes slide around as he searches for a word. ‘It expanded. My heart expanded. I never knew I could love anyone that much. Remember how tiny they were? In their little plastic cots?’
There’s silence and I know we’re both remembering those scary first twenty-four hours when Tessa needed help to breathe. It seems a million years ago now. She’s a robust and healthy girl. But still.
‘I know.’ Drunken tears suddenly well up in my eyes. ‘I know.’
‘You remember those tiny socks they used to wear?’ Dan takes another slug of wine. ‘You want to know a secret? I miss those tiny socks.’
‘I’ve still got them!’ I get up eagerly from the table, half tripping over the chair leg. ‘I was sorting out clothes the other day and I put away a whole bunch of baby clothes, for … I dunno. Maybe the girls will have children one day …’
I head into the hall, open the cupboard under the stairs and drag back a plastic bin bag full of baby clothes. Dan has opened another bottle of wine and pushes a full glass to me as I pull out a bundle of sleepsuits. They smell of Fairy washing powd
er, and it’s such a babyland smell, it goes straight to my heart. Our entire world was babies and now it’s gone.
‘Oh my God.’ Dan stares at the sleepsuits as though transfixed. ‘They’re so tiny.’
‘I know.’ I take a deep gulp of wine. ‘Look, the one with the duckies.’
This sleepsuit was always my favourite, with its pattern of yellow ducklings. We sometimes used to call the girls our ducklings. We used to say we were putting them away in their nests. It’s funny how things come back to you.
‘Remember that teddy bear mobile with the lullaby?’ Dan waves his wine glass erratically in the air. ‘How did it go again?’
‘La-la-la …’ I try, but I can’t remember the tune. Damn. That tune used to be ingrained in our psyches.
‘It’s on a video.’ Dan opens his laptop, and a moment later opens up a video folder, Girls: First Year. With no warning I’m looking at footage of Dan from five years ago, and I’m so affected, I can’t even speak.
On the screen, Dan’s sitting on our sofa, cradling a week-old Anna on his bare chest. She looks so scrawny with her tiny legs in that froggy newborn position. She looks so vulnerable. They say to you: ‘You’ll forget how small they were,’ and you don’t believe it, but then you do. And Dan looks so tender, so protective. So proud. So fatherly.
I glance over at him, and his face is working with emotion. ‘That’s it,’ he says, his voice all muffled as though he might weep. ‘That’s the meaning of life. Right there.’ He jabs at the screen. ‘Right there.’
‘Right there.’ I wipe at my eyes.
‘Right there,’ he repeats, his eyes still fixed on baby Anna.
‘You’re right.’ I nod emphatically. ‘You’re so, so, so, so, so, so …’ My mind has suddenly gone blank. ‘Exactly. Exactly.’
‘I mean, what else matters?’ He makes elaborate gestures with his wine glass. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing,’ I agree, holding on to my chair to stop the world spinning. I’m feeling just a bit … There seem to be two Dans sitting in front of me, put it like that.
‘Nothing.’ Dan seems to want to make this point even more strongly. ‘Nothing at all in the world. Nothing.’
I nod. ‘Nothing.’
‘So you know what? We should have more.’ Dan points emphatically at the screen.
‘Yes,’ I agree whole-heartedly, before realizing I don’t know what he’s on about. ‘More what?’
‘That’s how we make sense of our life. That’s how we fill the endless, interminable years.’ Dan seems more and more animated. ‘We should have more babies. Lots more, Sylvie. Like …’ He casts around. ‘Ten more.’
I stare at him speechlessly. More babies.
And now I can feel tears rising yet again. Oh my God, he’s right, this is the answer to everything.
Through my drunken haze, I have a vision of ten adorable babies all in a row, in matching wooden cradles. Of course we should have more babies. Why didn’t we think of this before? I’ll be Mother Earth. I’ll lead them on bicycle outings, wearing matching clothes, singing wholesome songs.
A tiny voice at the back of my head seems to be protesting something, but I can’t hear it properly and I don’t want to. I want little feet and ducky-down heads. I want babies calling me ‘Mama’ and loving me most of all.
Times ten.
On impulse I reach for the duckling sleepsuit, hold it up and we both stare at it for a moment. I know we’re both imagining a brand-new squirmy baby in it. Then I drop it on the table.
‘Let’s do it,’ I say breathlessly. ‘Right here, right now.’ I lean over to kiss him, but accidentally slide off my chair on to the floor. Shit. Ow.
‘Right here, right now.’ Dan eagerly joins me on the floor and starts pulling off my clothes.
And it’s not that comfortable, here on the tiled floor, but I don’t care, because we’re starting a new life! We’re starting a new chapter. We have a purpose, a goal, a dear little tiny baby in a Moses basket … Everything’s suddenly rosy.
FOUR
OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE WE DONE?
Am I pregnant?
Am I?
I’m lying in bed the next morning, my head pounding. I feel nauseous. I feel freaked out. Do I feel pregnant? Oh God, do I?
I can’t believe I’m waking up to this scenario. I feel as though I’m in a video warning teens about accidental pregnancy. We didn’t use any protection last night.
Hang on, did we?
No. No. Definitely not.
Gingerly, my hand steals down to touch my abdomen. It hasn’t changed. But that means nothing. Inside me, the miracle of human conception could have happened. Or it could be happening, right now, while Dan sleeps on, blissfully clutching his pillow as though our life hasn’t just been ruined.
No, not ruined.
Yes, ruined. In so, so many ways.
Morning sickness. Backache. No sleep. Baby weight. Those vile pregnancy jeans with the elastic panels. No money. No sleep.
I know I’m fixated by sleep. That’s because sleep deprivation is a form of torture. I can’t do the no-sleep thing again. Plus: the age gap would be six years. So, would we have to have a fourth child, to keep the baby company? But four? Four children? What kind of car would we need then? Some monstrous people carrier. How will we park a people carrier in our little street? Nightmare.
Would I have to give up work to look after the brood? But I don’t want to give up work. My routine works well, and everyone’s happy …
A brand-new, horrific thought makes me gasp. What if we have another baby, and then we try for a fourth … and end up with triplets? It happens. These things happen. That family in Stoke Newington that Tilda met once. Three singletons and then boom! Triplets. I would die. I would actually collapse. Oh God, why didn’t we think this through? Six children? Six? Where would we put them?
I’m hyperventilating. I’ve gone from a mother of two girls, keeping her head above water, to a submerged mother of six, with her bedraggled hair in a scrunchie and flip-flops on her pregnancy-ruined feet and a look of meek exhaustion …
Wait. I need the bathroom.
I creep out of bed, tiptoe into the bathroom without waking Dan and immediately realize: I’m not pregnant. Very much not pregnant.
Which is, oh God, such a relief. I sink down on the loo and allow myself to sag, head in hands. I feel as though I’ve skidded to a halt just before hurtling over the precipice. I’m happy just as we are. The four of us. Perfect.
But what will Dan say? What about the duckling sleepsuit and the dinky little socks and ‘That’s how we make sense of our life’? What if he wants six children, he just never told me before?
For a while, I sit there, trying to work out how I’m going to break it to him that not only are we not having this baby, we’re not having any more babies.
‘Sylvie?’ he calls out from the bedroom. ‘You OK?’
‘Oh, hi! You woke up!’ My voice is high and a bit strained. ‘I’m just … um …’
I head back into the bedroom, avoiding Dan’s eye.
‘So … I’m not pregnant,’ I say to the floor.
‘Oh.’ He clears his throat. ‘Right. Well, that’s …’
He breaks off into an almighty pause. My breath is on hold. I feel like I’m in an episode of Deal or No Deal. How exactly is he going to finish that sentence?
‘That’s … a shame,’ he says at last.
I make a sound which could sound like agreement, although is in fact totally the opposite. My stomach is gnarling up a little. Is this going to turn into the massive deal-breaker of our marriage? Even more than the green velvet sofa? (Total saga. We compromised on grey in the end. But the green would have looked so much better.)
‘We can try again next month,’ Dan says at length.
‘Yes.’ I swallow hard, thinking: Shit, shit, shit, he does want six children …
‘You should probably get some … whatsit,’ he adds. ‘Folic acid.’
No. Thi
s is going too fast. Folic bloody acid? Shall I buy some newborn nappies while I’m at it?
‘Right.’ I gaze at the chest of drawers. ‘I mean, yes. I could do that.’
I’m going to have to break it to him. It’s like jumping into a swimming pool. Take a deep breath and go.
‘Dan, I’m sorry, but I just don’t want any more children,’ I say in a burst. ‘I know we got all sentimental about socks, but at the end of the day, they’re just socks, whereas a baby is a massive life-changing commitment, and I’ve just got my life sorted, and we’d probably have to have a fourth, which might mean six, and we just don’t have room in our life for six children! I mean, do we?’
As I run out of steam, I realize that Dan is also talking, just as urgently, straight across me, as though he’s jumped into a swimming pool too.
‘… look at the finances,’ he’s saying. ‘I mean, what about university fees? What about the extra bedroom? What about the car?’
Hang on a minute.
‘What are you saying?’ I peer at him, puzzled.
‘I’m sorry, Sylvie.’ He looks at me tensely. ‘I know we got carried away last night. And maybe you want a bigger family, which is something we’ll have to talk through, and I’ll always respect your views, but I’m just saying—’
‘I don’t want a bigger family!’ I cut across him. ‘You’re the one that wants six children!’
‘Six?’ He gapes at me. ‘Are you nuts? We had one unprotected shag. Where did “six children” come from?’
Honestly. Can’t he see? It’s so obvious!
‘We have another one and then we go for a fourth, so the baby has a friend, and get landed with triplets,’ I explain. ‘It happens. That family in Stoke Newington,’ I remind him.
At the word ‘triplets’, Dan looks utterly aghast. His eyes meet mine, and I can see the truth in them: he doesn’t want triplets. He doesn’t want a people carrier. He doesn’t want any of this.
‘I think another baby is a red herring,’ he says at last. ‘It’s not the answer to anything.’
‘I think we were both quite pissed last night.’ I bite my lip. ‘We really shouldn’t be in charge of our own reproductive systems.’
Surprise Me Page 6
