by Talli Roland
‘Oh, Anna. Of course I care. I love you.’ Michael put his arms around her, pulling her close. For a minute, Anna allowed herself to enjoy the embrace before leaning back.
‘Then why . . . ’ She gulped in air. ‘Why haven’t you made more of an effort? For the past few months, I’ve felt as if I’m the only one invested in our marriage.’ She held her breath, awaiting his response.
After what seemed like forever, Michael nodded, gripping her hand again. ‘You know, you’re right—I haven’t been doing much for us lately. I hadn’t realised it until now, but I guess I got a little lazy, or complacent. You’re always so keen to take care of everything, and it was easy to sit back and let you get on with it. I figured you’d let me know if you wanted something more.’
‘But I did!’ Anna said, her voice ringing out. ‘What about the films I asked you to, or the speedboat, or . . . ’
Michael’s eyebrows rose. ‘But all those were activities for me, right? I didn’t think you actually wanted to do them.’ He shook his head. ‘I have to say, though, I was surprised when you disappeared the night of our anniversary.’
Anna’s mouth dropped open. ‘You remembered our anniversary? I thought you’d forgotten.’
‘Of course I remembered. I was waiting for you to whisk me away for another epic night! I know how much you love planning our outings.’
‘But I told you I hadn’t organised anything,’ Anna said, shifting on the sofa as memories of how she’d almost kissed another man ran through her head.
Michael shrugged. ‘I thought you were trying to put me off track, surprise me like you did a few years ago. And then when you left . . . ’ His face sank into a serious, almost vulnerable expression. ‘You do still want to be with me, right?’
‘Of course. I love you.’ She’d never been surer of that, especially after the near miss with Christos. ‘But I can’t make our marriage work on my own anymore. I don’t want to make it work on my own. I need the time—the space—to do something for me, too.’ Anna shook her head, recalling her assertion to Clare that Michael was her everything. That was the problem—no one should be your whole world. If she’d had something else, something for her, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen down the rabbit hole of insecurity.
‘Anna, do what makes you happy,’ Michael said. ‘And from now on, things will be fifty-fifty around here, although you may have to teach me to work the washing machine.’ He grinned. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we have a weekend getaway soon at the Lake District? Celebrate our anniversary properly and mark a new start to our marriage.’
Anna tilted her head. She loved the Lake District, but . . . ‘Sure, we could, but maybe we could go somewhere a bit more exotic. Like Venice?’ She held her breath.
Michael had nodded. ‘Venice sounds brilliant.’
Now Anna squeezed Michael’s hand, thankful for his presence by her side in the London night—and in her life. He’d surprised her by getting ready to go out tonight without her even asking if he wanted to come along, and it had been wonderful to show up at the meeting with him. Gazing down the small side street towards Christos’s restaurant, a mixture of emotions tumbled inside. She couldn’t believe she’d almost ruined her marriage, all because she hadn’t realised she needed something of her own, too. In a way, though, Anna was thankful for the fiasco with Christos. At least it had helped her reach that conclusion sooner rather than later.
They neared the door of their house, and Michael reached for the handle. ‘You know, that club has really made me think about the future. I’ll never be keen on kids. But you do still feel the same, right? That wasn’t what you were missing?’
Anna looked up at him. Children would demand even more from her—they weren’t the answer she’d been seeking. ‘No. I’m with you on that.’ She put a hand on his back as he fitted the key in the lock. ‘You know what? I’m looking forward to our new future together . . . and to finding something for me. I think life will be perfect, just the two of us.’
Michael swung open the door of their home. ‘Me too, Anna. Me too.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Poppy made a face at her reflection in the Tube window. Her wavy hair was lifeless and flat, her cheeks pale and hollowed out in the dim light of the Underground. She felt worse than she looked, if that was possible. She’d barely slept since Alistair had left over a week ago, and even though she’d tried to ring his mobile several times—to say what, she didn’t know, but she was desperate to hear his voice—he hadn’t answered. Finally, he’d sent a text. She cringed, remembering the brief words saying he’d get in touch when he was ready. There hadn’t even been one single, solitary “x” at the end.
She wasn’t really in the mood for the No-Kids Club tonight, but she’d missed last week to stay home in case Alistair returned, and at least it was better than kicking around the flat on her own. She’d lingered at school as long as possible the past few days until the caretaker kicked her out, and she hadn’t the heart to face his pitying stare again. She could guzzle a few (non-alcoholic) drinks and indulge in some brainless chatter without a reminder of what was driving her and Alistair apart: kids.
Sighing, Poppy dragged herself up the Tube stairs and down Marylebone Road. She’d been so sure she could talk her husband round once she proved her ability to deal with it all, no problem. How had she got it so wrong?
Because you were only listening to yourself, a voice peeped up inside. Because you let what you wanted overtake everything else—even your marriage.
But how could you compromise on something as important as having your own child? She shook her head, opening the door to the pub. Enough! She’d been going in circles ever since Alistair had left and getting more and more confused.
The noise swelled as she neared the top floor of the pub, and Poppy let it drown out the voices inside. As she trudged to the bar in the corner, she spotted Anna with a man by her side. Must be her husband, Poppy thought with surprise, remembering Anna last telling her the man wouldn’t leave his video games for love or money. Anna caught her eye and raised a hand, threading through the crowd towards her.
‘Hey there!’ she said when she reached Poppy’s side. She turned to look up at the man beside her. ‘This is Michael.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Poppy said, extending a hand.
‘You, too.’ Michael grasped her palm, then slid an arm around Anna’s waist, and Anna smiled up at him. God, she missed Alistair, Poppy thought as she watched the two of them. Whatever the problem had been, they’d evidently worked it out and were much happier for it. She’d never seen Anna so radiant.
‘I’m glad we caught you tonight,’ Anna said, sipping her wine. ‘We’re not going to be here for the next little while.’
‘No?’ Poppy took a long gulp of water she’d been handed. ‘What are you up to? Anything fun?’
Anna nodded. ‘We’re off to Venice! Michael’s coming for two weeks, and then I’ll stay on and take some Italian classes. I can’t wait.’
Michael pulled her even closer. ‘I’m going to miss her.’
‘I bet you will.’ Poppy smiled, the longing inside growing until she could hardly draw a breath. When was the last time she and Alistair had been so lovey-dovey? She couldn’t even recall. Everything—from their conversations to what they ate to when they made love—had been focused on one thing. They might not have hit Marta and Luis’s level, but they’d been well on their way.
Had they gone too far to turn back? Had she gone too far?
She said goodbye to Anna and Michael, promising to keep in touch, then pushed through the crowd to a table in the corner. Collapsing onto a chair, the buzz washed over her as the wheels spun in her head. She loved Alistair, that much she did know, and weighed up against the theoretical possibility of having their own child . . .
Poppy shook her head. She didn’t want to risk what she had with Alistair to chase the slim
chance of carrying a baby inside her. Whether the doctors identified the cause of her infertility or not, pregnancy was unlikely. As much as she wanted a baby, she wanted one with Alistair.
Cringing, she recalled Alistair’s stunned reaction when she told him she’d started the process without his knowledge. Her cheeks flushed with shame. She’d been so desperate to get pregnant, she’d convinced herself he would be happy to see she could do it on her own. Deep down, though, she’d known her actions were wrong.
‘Hey there.’ Poppy glanced up to see Clare slumping onto a chair beside her. The woman looked as pale and exhausted as she felt. Poppy raised an eyebrow at Clare’s bust, which appeared to have magically inflated. Wow! Either she’d had a boob job or she was pregnant—and neither seemed likely options. Poppy let her eyes drop to Clare’s midsection, as flat as ever. Not that it meant anything. She’d read enough books to know that some women didn’t show until later in the pregnancy. But surely the founder of the No-Kids Club couldn’t be pregnant. Could she?
‘Hi,’ Poppy said finally. ‘How are you?’
‘Okay.’ Clare took a sip of water, and Poppy raised an eyebrow. Where was the customary glass of wine?
It wouldn’t surprise her if Clare was pregnant, Poppy thought bitterly. Everyone but her seemed able to get knocked up—even those who were staunchly against it. Grief clenched her insides so strongly it was almost a physical ache.
‘Are you pregnant?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.
Clare’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’
Poppy repeated the question. ‘Are you pregnant?’ It was none of her business, but she was too tired and drained to care.
Clare stared down at the floor, then slowly raised her head to meet Poppy’s eyes. ‘How did you know?’
Poppy shrugged. ‘You look tired and your boobs are bigger, plus you’re drinking water. Doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to put the pieces together.’ She smiled to take away the bluntness of the words.
A look of horror passed over Clare’s face. ‘You don’t think anyone else has noticed, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t worry.’ Poppy gazed out at the crowd. ‘They’re not exactly thinking of pregnancy all the time like I am.’ She shook her head, trying to imagine the group’s stunned reaction if they discovered their founder was pregnant. ‘How far along are you?’
‘About nine or ten weeks,’ Clare answered, sliding her hand down to her belly before jerking it away.
‘And so . . . ’ Poppy let her voice trail off, unsure whether to ask Clare what was ahead. After everything she’d been through, it would be almost unbearable if Clare said she didn’t plan to have the baby.
Clare shook her head. ‘I’m not mother material and I never have been.’
‘You learn. At least that’s what everyone tells me.’ Poppy couldn’t keep the note of longing from her voice.
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that, too.’ Clare’s face twisted. ‘But I’m not sure it’s true. My own mother certainly didn’t. She left when I was ten.’
‘Wow.’ Poppy couldn’t imagine someone leaving their child behind. She reached out and touched Clare’s arm, thinking she’d never seen her look so vulnerable. ‘That must have been tough.’
Clare shrugged, tracing her finger down the dewy glass. ‘It was, at least for a little while. But then my father remarried, and to be honest, Tam was a better mother than my own. I’m so lucky to have her in my life—she’s my real mother.’
Clare’s words hit Poppy squarely in the heart. That was exactly what Alistair had been telling her—that by caring and nurturing a child, it would become their own. They’d be parents through the sheer act of parenting, and the child would love them like no other. She stared out the window, thoughts tumbling through her head. Why had she dismissed adoption so quickly? She’d wanted to carry a child within her, sure, but that wasn’t what made a mother. Poppy had said it herself: you learnt to be a mum by doing it.
Poppy got to her feet, energy surging through her. For the first time since Alistair had left, her head—and her heart—were clear. She knew with certainty what she wanted the future to hold.
‘Right.’ She gathered up her coat and handbag, pulse racing. ‘Right. I have to go.’ She put a hand on Clare’s arm. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’
Clare nodded. ‘Please keep our conversation a secret, okay?’
‘Of course,’ Poppy said. ‘Bye.’ And with that, she clattered down the stairs and out into the night, hoping—praying—it wasn’t too late to tell Alistair she was ready to have a child with him.
As she rushed to the Tube, she texted him saying she knew he wanted space, but she really needed to talk. She kept the phone in her hand, ears cocked for the answering ping. But when she reached the steps of the station, the mobile remained resolutely silent. Maybe she should try ringing? Eagerly, Poppy punched in Alistair’s number, listening to the tinny ring before it clicked through to voicemail.
‘Hey, babe, it’s me. Listen, we really need to talk—I’m ready now to look at adoption.’ She paused, wondering what to say next. ‘I’m sorry. Please call me back . . . I love you.’
Poppy clicked off, a slight smile on her face as she scurried down the Tube steps. He had to call back. He had to! When she got off the train in thirty minutes, she’d put money on the fact that there’d be a voicemail waiting. Bloody Underground and its lack of signal. It was like living in the Dark Ages.
A balloon of hope grew as the Tube raced through the darkened tunnels. Maybe he’d even come over tonight. They could crack open a bottle—oh, how she’d missed wine!—and talk about their plans for the future. Imagine, in just a few months, their empty nursery could finally have an occupant. Her grin grew wider as she pictured herself and Alistair leaning over the cot, watching their baby in its peaceful slumber.
Finally, her stop. Poppy raced from the carriage and up the escalator, eyes fixed on the phone and the signal bar. No, no . . . ah, here we go, connected to the world once again! Leaning against the grimy wall of the station, she waited for the phone to bleep, signalling a voicemail or text.
But there was nothing, and when she could stare at the mobile no longer—or take the watchful gaze of the station’s resident homeless man—she pushed off the wall and trudged home. Maybe Alistair was out, she told herself, or he was asleep, or he just hadn’t seen her messages.
As she unlocked the door to the empty flat, though, she knew none of those possibilities was likely. No matter the time, her husband had always called her back when she’d rung; sometimes, within a second of her hanging up. He wanted to be at her beck and call—literally—he’d joke.
Until now.
Poppy turned on every lamp, banishing the shadows from each room until the flat glowed. But even with the blazing light, she still felt cold and dark inside.
‘Clare? Oh, how lucky I’ve caught you.’
Clare smiled into the phone at her father’s warm tone the next morning. No matter how complicated life was right now, his voice was like being submerged in a delicious bubble bath: pure comfort, and that was exactly what she needed. Her conversation with Ellie had sparked off a furious storm of questions, and for the past week, she’d been trying in vain to understand exactly why she didn’t want kids. Although it had never seemed important before, with her current situation, she needed to act from a point of clarity. If she didn’t, whatever decision she made might haunt her, and that was the last thing she wanted.
‘Hey, Dad,’ she said now. ‘That was lucky, actually. I’ve just started my break.’ Breaks in her department were rare, and it was even rarer they lasted longer than thirty seconds. Usually, she’d barely have sat down before the next emergency arrived. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m in London for the day, running some errands for Tam. I’ll be swinging by her favourite cushion shop on King’s Road. Are you free for coffee thi
s evening? There’s a café right next to the shop. I think I’ve tried every one of the items on the menu waiting for your stepmum.’
Clare grinned, picturing her father munching his way through all the dishes while Tam lusted after cushions. ‘I should be out of here by six. Give me a few minutes to change, and I’ll meet you at the café.’
‘Perfect.’ Clare could hear the smile in her dad’s voice. ‘See you soon.’
‘Bye.’ She clicked off, then shoved the phone in her pocket. It’d been ages since she’d spent some alone time with her father. Usually Tam was there, and although her stepmum had many good qualities, she was a bit of a chatterbox. Dad rarely got a word in edgewise, not that he was much of a talker. Even when her mum had been around, she’d taken the lead on everything, including conversation. It was why they’d really struggled after she’d left. Grimacing, Clare recalled the piles of unwashed dishes in the sink, how it’d taken weeks for her father to organise her new school uniform, and the silence that hung heavy in the dusty air.
A few hours later, Clare pulled open the door to the café on King’s Road. Amidst the fashionable chrome and white interior, her father looked distinctly out of place in his checked shirt, jeans, and comfortable loafers. Not that he’d notice—as long as there was food, a newspaper, and a cup of tea, he was comfortable anywhere.
‘Hey, Dad.’ Clare put her arms around his solid form and gave him a squeeze, breathing in the familiar scent of cinnamon and spicy cologne.
‘Hey, yourself.’ He pulled back and ran his eyes over her. ‘You’re looking good, if a little tired. Are you getting enough to eat?’
The thought of food still made her nauseated, but Clare just nodded. ‘I had a big lunch in the hospital caf today. I’m full from that.’ Thank goodness her father had never eaten at the hospital so he wouldn’t know the unlikelihood of that statement. Nobody ever got full from hospital food—unless you were unlucky enough to sample the bread pudding, the equivalent of ingesting concrete.
