The Idea of You

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Do you think Camille will be happy to be getting a little brother or sister?’ This thought, spoken aloud, drew her back to the present.

  ‘Possibly.’ He shifted in his seat on the sofa. ‘But I think we should also be aware that she might feel a little envious. It’s only natural that she will have worries about her nose being put out of joint, particularly as this baby gets to live with her dad, something she has never done.’

  It was a reminder that Geneviève had told him of her pregnancy only when the ink had dried on their divorce papers.

  ‘Then we will just have to make her extra welcome, really get her involved,’ Lucy enthused. ‘Maybe I could teach her to knit?’ She sat forward, enlivened by the idea.

  Jonah threw his head back and laughed. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  The two looked at each other, still, after one year married, thoroughly smitten.

  The next morning the alarm let out its shrill ring, and Jonah groaned as he hit the snooze button on the top with the palm of his hand.

  ‘Five more minutes,’ he pleaded – with whom she wasn’t sure, and she smiled as his dark, curly hair disappeared under the duvet, as if he might be able to hide from the day. Quite the opposite of her, he wasn’t a morning person.

  Lucy lay back against the soft pillow and let the light creeping from under the roman blind wash over her. It was still a wonderful surprise for her to wake in this Victorian terraced house in Windermere Avenue, Queen’s Park, London, a mere hop, skip and a jump from where Jonah had grown up, an only child. His parents had died quite recently. She was sad that she never got to meet them, knowing it would have been lovely to know the other woman in the world who loved this man as much as she did.

  Their bedroom was scruffy and the bed low to the ground, with dust bunnies gathered in the spaces between the floorboards. Framed vintage posters of fast cars snapped at the Le Mans rally in the sixties hung either side of the bed, and none of the bed linen matched. She had, when she moved in, simply amalgamated her things with his, and the result was this mismatch of homely and functional.

  She had to admit that she rather liked it, all of it – the piles of magazines, the imperfect paintwork, the nests of discarded shoes at the bottom of wardrobes, the abandoned, broken sports equipment clogging any available corner, the creaky doors, the dodgy plumbing and the high, ornate ceilings where cobwebs lurked. This solid three-bedroom house with its waxed pine floors, tarnished brass door furniture and split-level cook’s kitchen – where jars of herbs and spice tins jostled for position on the dusty wooden open shelves – felt like home. There were blackened skillets and pots hanging on menacing-looking hooks above the well-used range. The uneven terracotta floor listed slightly towards the French windows, as if keen to encourage you out into the busy garden, which boasted either a tangle of fragrant, climbing jasmine or a bundle of rather sorry-looking brown twigs, depending on the time of the year. The whole house and everything in it seemed to have been waiting for her. To live like this felt carefree, relaxed. Every surface and every object had a tangible history, making her feel closer to Jonah and all that had gone before. It was a house with roots that she nurtured and made her own.

  It was a world away from her previous home of four years, in which everything was considered. Her waterside apartment in a purpose-built block on the Thames Path in East London had sat empty for a long while, until she had been persuaded to rent it out to Ross, a fastidious friend of Tansy’s, for an initial six-month let. She hoped he would renew the lease, agreeing that it was better to have someone in it than to let it stay empty. Initially her reluctance to hand over the keys had been down to her own insecurities – supposing she needed a fallback? Jonah laughed, explaining to her in simple terms that marriage didn’t work like that. It wasn’t a ‘try and see’ situation, there was no ‘free sample’ on a tiny spoon, no ‘return it within twenty-eight days, no questions asked’. This was it! The very next day, she had rung Ross and organised his lease. It felt like progress.

  Life in their marital home was comfortable, and once she had got used to the overground train ride and her extended commute to and from work, and familiarised herself with all the good stuff along the bustling Salusbury Road, including the delicatessen, baker’s, gastro pub, organic supermarket and vintage hardware store, it felt like a trip out to the suburbs every day. This feeling might not have been solely down to the location of their house, but also the blissful state in which she now lived, with her man by her side and her baby in her tum. Lucy had never felt this happy, had never known she could be this happy.

  She turned on to her side and placed her head on her husband’s pillow; the sight and smell of him still filled her with a bubble of joy.

  ‘Time to get up, sleepyhead,’ she cooed, kissing the side of his head.

  ‘No. Go away,’ he snapped, drawing the duvet even tighter around his form, as if this feathery defence might be all it would take to keep the day at bay.

  If only.

  Lucy stretched out her foot and placed it on his calf, sliding it up and down. She felt his body shift beneath the covers.

  ‘Don’t.’ He laughed, pulling the duvet beneath his chin, his smile giving the opposite message. ‘It’s not fair to tempt me with your delicious bod, not when I could be sleeping. I still have a few minutes left.’ He let his eyes wander to the clock that was on snooze.

  Wriggling closer, she placed her leg over his thigh and rested her face on his shoulder, palming circles on his hairy chest. Jonah gripped her wrist. ‘Okay, we have a serious dilemma,’ he growled.

  ‘What is it?’ She threw her hair over her shoulder and dipped forward to kiss his chin.

  ‘I have approximately four and a half minutes before I have to jump up and into action. There’s a training session today for all three sites and they want me there to rubber-stamp the day, hand out certificates and give the nod to the top sales teams, and if I don’t get up and get out my whole day will be thrown out of sync.’ He reached up and kissed her. ‘On the other hand, if I miss this opportunity for a bit of quick, fuss-free sex with my beautiful wife, I just might regret it for the rest of the day. Meaning I wouldn’t be able to concentrate at the training event. You see? A dilemma.’

  Lucy rolled on top of him and kissed him full on the mouth.

  ‘So what’s it going to be?’ she purred.

  Jonah pushed her into a sitting position and manoeuvred her legs either side of him as he held her by the waist, ‘I am going to see just how much progress we can make in four minutes.’ He grinned, impatiently helping her undo the flimsy ribbon that held her pyjama bottoms in place, as she wriggled to be free of the candy-striped cotton.

  ‘Shit! Oh my God!’ His sudden shout alarmed her.

  Jonah tried to sit up, pushing her a little too quickly to one side, as he eased his legs to the edge of the mattress and sat with his back curved and his shoulders heaving, as if his breathing were laboured, heavy.

  Lucy gave a small giggle, born of embarrassment and fear. ‘Are you okay?’ She raked her nails over his back.

  He turned to her, his expression one of shock, his mouth opening and closing as he seemed to struggle to find the right thing to say. She noted that his face had taken on a greyish hue.

  ‘Jonah? You are scaring me. Please speak to me. What’s the matter?’ Her mind raced. What had he remembered? Or was it his heart? He was a good seven years older than her, and his love of cooking with wine, cream and butter worried her. ‘Jonah? What is it? Talk to me,’ she repeated, as she too sat up in the bed.

  And then she looked down at his shaking hand, raised in front of his chest, and then at the patch on his stomach where she had sat only seconds before.

  Her eyes widened and her tears sprang, as she touched her fingers to her sodden pyjama bottoms.

  The alarm pipped its shrill, invasive sound. She watched her husband reach out and slam the button on the top with a palm that was bright red with her blood.r />
  I often wonder what your voice might be like. I think about it progressing from baby sounds and gurgles to a burbling lisp of repetition – mumma . . . mumma . . . mumma . . . – until your true voice emerges and you speak clearly and coherently, sharing all the wonderful things that you have learned, and telling me of all the amazing things that you have seen in your sweet, sweet tone. I hear you, when you are older, ending a call with ‘gotta go, I love you, Mum!’ And my heart lifts at the very idea of you in a rush to crack on with this busy, wonderful life of yours. I wonder if you might sound a bit like me? This idea makes me smile; I like it very much. I also think about your first steps. What a thing! Your first ever steps on the planet! I imagine me there, smiling on one side of the room, and my mum or my sister on the other. I pull away my fingers that you have been gripping and watch as you sway a little like a drunk and then almost run, maybe on tippytoes, towards the warm embrace that awaits you on the other side of the room. I clap and cheer, full of joy. My tears hover on the surface, overcome by the emotion of the moment. I would be so, so proud of you. You are off! And then you take maybe four or five wobbly steps before you are scooped into a safe pair of arms and lifted high! I think about this incredible skill that will stand you in good stead for your whole life, the start of your adventures. I think about your chubby little feet that will carry you far and wide and I want you to know that if I had my way, I would always be by your side, ready to catch you if ever you should fall.

  THREE

  Lucy could only breathe with her mouth open and she did so with her eyes closed, trying to block out where she was and why she was there. She didn’t care how it looked to the other patients or their visitors or indeed the numerous medics who hurried across the shiny floor with clipboards resting on their forearms and fixed half-smiles of reassurance and regret. She figured it was far better to sit propped up in this exposed bed in this very public day ward with her mouth open, keeping as calm as she possibly could, rather than have to explain that if she breathed through her nose, she could smell the iron-laden scent of her loss. It was especially strong to her, the earthy, blood-tinged odour of her baby leaving her body, as it wafted upwards. She knew that one strong inhalation might be all it took to push her over the edge.

  . . . about the size of a small chicken’s egg . . . It will now weigh up to fourteen grams.

  That might be true, but this baby was not as tough nor nearly as sturdy as she had thought.

  I am so sorry that I couldn’t take better care of you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t keep you. I wanted to, more than you will ever know.

  Jonah was talking. She turned to face him and took in snippets of his speech, allowing the odd word to permeate her own thoughts, liking the comfort of his warm tone, but at the same time praying for silence.

  He sat forward on the blue plastic chair and, with her one drip-free arm dangling down, he thumbed the skin on the back of her hand as he spoke: ‘. . . that’s what the sonographer said, sometimes there is no good reason. It just happens . . . We can try again . . . when you are ready . . . no hurry . . . just a little procedure, you won’t feel a thing, that’s what the doctor said . . . then I can take you home . . .’

  She screwed her eyes more tightly shut and pictured the little girl who lived inside her mind.

  I’m sorry, darling. I am so sorry.

  They were right; the procedure was strangely mundane. She was left with a feeling not dissimilar to period pain that a couple of co-codamol tablets almost instantly diluted, and when the pain had gone she wished for it to return, deciding that it was better to feel something. With her pyjamas nestling in the bottom of a plastic bag, along with a leaflet on what to do when she got home, Lucy sat in the front seat of the car wearing the jeans Jonah had packed in haste. She watched as he clenched and unclenched his fists on the steering wheel and sighed and exhaled repeatedly, trying to expel whatever lurked inside.

  It was a feeling new to her, this awkwardness and the accompanying silence. As a couple they chattered aimlessly for hours about anything and everything, sharing their inner monologue and humming at will; their noisy interaction provided the background music to their lives. This cloak of quiet dampened their already dented spirits. This mute withdrawal was in itself enough to make her feel sad.

  Lucy stared out of the window as dusk fell on the houses en route. When the traffic slowed, she gazed into windows and glimpsed the evidence of family life. She saw pink bunting strung up in bedrooms where little girls would lie under princess-inspired canopies. Tricycles that lay abandoned in front porches, and trampolines with high safety nets taking up too much of the garden, left idle for the night. And then a dad, pushing open a gate, holding the hand of his small curly-haired son, as they wearily trod the path towards home.

  Lucky. Lucky people. Why couldn’t that be me?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jonah asked for the millionth time that day, as the engine purred at the traffic lights. And for the millionth time she could only nod her response, anaesthetised by the shock of what had happened, still trying to comprehend that this morning she had woken up pregnant and now, as she travelled home, she was not.

  How can that be? What did I do wrong?

  Jonah helped her from the car, despite her protestations that she could manage. He opened the front door and flipped on the hall light and then, one by one, the three lamps in the sitting room. Yet no amount of lamplight could help tonight. The house seemed to have lost some of its magic, as if in their absence it had dulled the mirrors, kept the corners dark and the air a little too warm in respect of what had passed. And she was grateful that the atmosphere reflected her sorrow.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked again, and she swallowed the instinct to snap; he was, after all, only being kind. Lucy reminded herself that he didn’t know what to say, just as she didn’t know what to do.

  She nodded.

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’ He rubbed his hands together and headed for the kitchen. Both were glad of the distraction of the task for very different reasons.

  Lucy dumped the plastic bag on the sitting room floor and made her way to the sofa. She sat back on the soft cushions and kicked off her trainers, staring at the ashes in the hearth. On the cushion next to her sat her baby book, cast aside with the corners of its pages folded over so she wouldn’t lose her place. But she had lost her place and was now no longer in the queue for motherhood. It felt like being sent back to the starting line just as she got on to the home straight. She opened the book and scanned the index, turning to the page where she read:

  Miscarriages are quite common in the first three months of pregnancy. Around one in five confirmed pregnancies sadly ends this way. The reasons for miscarriage are many and varied. Early miscarriages (up to ten weeks) can happen because there is something wrong with the baby, such as a chromosomal abnormality, or it could be due to other medical problems. A miscarriage in the first few weeks can often feel like a period, with spotting or bleeding and mild cramps or backache. This can progress to heavy bleeding, with blood clots and quite severe cramping pains.

  ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ he interrupted her. ‘Shall we put this away?’ he asked, making the question redundant and treating her like a child as he reached down and took the book from her grasp. He placed it on the bookshelf, hiding it behind a row of books on the French Revolution. He placed her tea on a coaster on the table by her side.

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave a weak smile, her voice still croaky from lack of use. As Jonah sat on the seat beside her, she picked up her knitting and positioned her hands, looping the wool around her fingers and scanning the pattern, continuing to click the needles and wind the wool.

  ‘What are you doing, darling?’ he asked with a catch to his voice.

  Lucy looked up at him, as if it were odd that he was asking the question. ‘My knitting. It’s not finished.’ She held up the lacy matinee jacket for him to see.

  ‘You don’t have to finish it, Lucy.’ He spoke softly. �
��It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Of course I do. It does matter.’ She looked at him quizzically, as if the suggestion were ridiculous. She fixed her eyes on the wool and carried on. ‘I’m sorry you missed your training thing at work.’ She never lifted her eyes from her task.

  ‘It’s not important. Nothing is as important as being here for you when you need me.’ He placed his arm along the back of the sofa, resting it on her shoulders in a loose hug.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, briefly.

  ‘Are you—’

  ‘Please don’t ask me if I’m okay.’ She cut him short, pausing from her craft and speaking with a little more of an edge than she had intended.

  There was a beat of silence while she stilled her needles and stared at the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lucy. I guess I don’t know what to say to you. I feel useless. I want to make it better, but I don’t know how,’ he confessed.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. Nothing at all,’ she stated, calmly. ‘But it’s nice to have you here by my side while I get this finished.’ And just like that, she once again found the rhythm and began to knit.

  ‘Okay, then.’ Jonah nodded and stretched his legs out in front of him, as if settling in for the evening at the end of any ordinary day.

  It was only minutes later that Lucy noticed the slight slump to his posture and the way his head tipped back in a doze.

  She worked industriously, as the evening slipped into the night, feeling the ache to her bones and grit beneath her eyelids. It was a little after midnight that she slipped the left needle into the front of the first stitch, inserting it from left to right. She then pulled the first stitch over the top of the second stitch, and using her left needle she worked her way along the hem, finishing off.

  Sitting back with a tired sigh, an aching back and a cramp in her fingers, she laid the little garment on her lap and ran her fingers over the delicate matinee coat, pleased with her work. It still needed the ribbon threading through the bodice and the three little white buttons attaching at the top, but that could wait; there was no rush, not now. Lifting it gently, she laid it on her arm and raised it to her face, imagining the tiny newborn that might dwell inside it smiling back.