by Julie Cohen
‘Romily,’ said Ben, ‘this is one of those so-called brilliant strokes of genius you get when you’re drunk and forget about the next day.’
‘No! I mean yes, I am drunk, but in this case, this really is a brilliant stroke of genius. Being pregnant wouldn’t be any trouble to me at all.’
‘You didn’t enjoy being pregnant with Posie.’
‘No, but I was worried the whole time. How I was going to support her, how I was going to carry on my research and writing up a PhD with a baby, whether I’d like her or not. And the whole – you know, her father. But this time, I wouldn’t have those worries. I’d know the baby was going to a good home – the best home in the world, in my opinion.’
‘I’m …’ She watched him think about it. ‘No, it’s too much to ask.’
‘No, it’s not! Look.’ She grabbed the pencil again and wrote, in letters big enough to fill up the rest of the page: SEVEN: Romily WILL HAVE THE BABY FOR YOU!!! She held up the paper in front of Ben’s face. He gently pushed it down.
‘This is a big thing, Romily.’
‘But Ben, seriously. You and Claire deserve a baby. And if I can help you, I will. I owe you so much. All those times you’ve looked after Posie …’
‘We wanted to do that. We love Posie. You don’t have to pay us back.’
‘And Posie wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you, Ben.’ She held his gaze with hers. ‘Remember that night.’
‘I remember it.’
‘You’re just about the most important person in my life,’ she said, her heart beating hard. ‘Let me do this for you.’
‘Do you mean it?’ Ben asked her quietly.
‘It’s nine months. What’s nine months, compared with what Posie and I owe you? I’ll do it.’
She watched him thinking. She could see the exact moment when hope came back into his eyes.
‘You would have a baby for us?’ he said. As if he couldn’t quite believe it.
‘I would do anything for you. Anything.’
He didn’t say a word. He reached across the pub table and took her face in his hands and he kissed her, suddenly and hard. Then he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’
Romily clung to him, her head spinning, her breath gone, her cheek pressed against his chest, tasting beer and tequila and her best friend on her lips.
4
Pear Tree
‘GOOD MORNING!’
Claire patted the soil down around the bulbs, making sure they were snug in their new home, before she looked up. Ben was coming across the lawn, carrying two steaming mugs. He wore a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and seemed not to care that his bare feet and the hems of his pyjamas were getting soaked.
‘Looks like you’ve been hard at work already,’ he said, handing her one of the mugs and squatting beside her.
‘I found these bulbs in the garage and thought I’d take advantage of the sunshine.’
‘It’s a good day for growing things.’ Ben smiled up at the sky.
‘You slept in the spare room last night.’
‘I’d had a few to drink and I didn’t want to disturb you,’ he said. ‘Besides, I had a lot to think about.’ He sat on the grass. ‘I’m sorry, Claire. I haven’t been seeing things from your point of view. I’ve been so focused on the idea of us having a baby together that I haven’t truly understood how hard it’s been for you. I thought that we were both going through it together, but you’re right: it’s your body. It’s worse for you.’
‘Okay,’ said Claire quietly.
‘It was insensitive of me to try to persuade you to try more IVF. I can understand how you feel that it just sets you up for more failure.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ve been too single-minded. It’s the way I always am. I decide I want something, and then I go for it with all I’ve got. But I should listen to you.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ she said. ‘I know how badly you want this. I want it too. If I could, I would.’
He drew her over to sit on his lap, on the ground. ‘You’ve got dirt on your forehead,’ he said, brushing it off.
‘I’m not happy about it either,’ she said. ‘I’ve always assumed I’d have children, ever since I was a little girl. I always assumed I’d have them with you. Every time I’ve come out to this garden I’ve thought about how great it would be for the children to play in. I’ve seen the football pitch on the lawn and the swing in the pear tree. I’ve seen them so strongly in my imagination that I haven’t taken the time to see what’s already here.’
‘We have a good life. Yes.’
‘It’s a future that’s completely different from what I imagined. But it doesn’t have to be a bad future. If we love each other, we can be happy, can’t we?’
He kissed her cheek and hugged her tight to him. ‘I’m already very happy,’ he said.
She let herself relax into his arms, closing her eyes, hearing the blackbird singing in the pear tree. The real pear tree, that was there right now, that blossomed sweet every spring and gave them gifts of fruit every autumn. The pear tree that was fine by itself, without a swing on it.
‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘Don’t know. About half eight? It’s a miracle I’m not hungover, considering the amount of tequila we got through last night.’
‘How much did you win the quiz by?’
‘We didn’t win. I’m afraid I unburdened myself on Romily.’
‘Hmm.’ Claire knew, of course, that Ben talked with Romily; they could only spend so long answering quiz questions and arguing about football. After a drink or two, Ben was bound to mention one or two things about his private life.
Her mother had often expressed horror that Ben had a female friend, but Claire wasn’t the sort to interfere with her husband’s friendships. Marriage was based on trust, after all. But she wasn’t entirely happy that he would discuss all the ins and outs of their private lives in the pub. Then again, it might not be a coincidence that he’d apologized this morning.
‘Did Romily help you see the female point of view?’ she asked.
‘In a way.’
‘Well, then I suppose I should thank her.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Let’s go inside. You must be getting a wet bottom.’
‘What’s that you say? You want a wet bottom?’ He tipped her off and dumped her on the grass.
‘Ben!’
He launched himself on top of her, wrapped his arms round her, and rolled with her over and over down the lawn, her squealing, him laughing, his body heavy and warm over and under hers, both of them damp and muddy and breathless when they stopped at the trunk of the pear tree, lying side by side.
‘You’re crazy,’ she giggled.
‘I told you, I’m happy.’ He kissed her mouth once, and again.
‘We should go in.’
‘Let’s just lie here for a minute.’
They gazed upward into the complicated branches of the pear tree. The blackbird, which had stopped singing at their approach, resumed its song.
Be here now. That was what Hannah, her Yoga for Fertility instructor, always said. Let go and relax and feel the moment. Claire had never been very good at that. One time Ben had bought her a spa weekend that included a session in a flotation tank: an entire hour of lying on her back in warm, extremely salty water, gazing up at false stars made of fairy lights, listening to flighty New Age music. You were supposed to relax and feel the moment. Be part of the water, be part of the music. Some people dropped off to sleep, the therapist said.
Claire had clenched her fists, closed her eyes to keep out the salt water. She’d felt like a board, a corpse, every small movement sending her spinning and rippling towards the sides of the tank. She kept on bumping her head and feet on cold tiles.
Maybe the whole problem had been that she was too focused on the past and the future to let go. Maybe she needed to do more things like this: a few sp
ontaneous moments with her husband, lying on the grass.
She took his hand and his fingers curled tight around hers. She felt her muscles letting go, relaxing into the earth.
5
The Hangover
ROMILY SCRAPED OPEN one eye and then immediately shut it. From her brief glimpse, the room appeared to be wobbling.
Tequila. Ugh. How did Mexicans survive that stuff?
Slowly, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, propping herself up against the headboard of her bed, and took a few sustaining breaths before she attempted opening her eyes again. A needle of pain stabbed her temple, but the room more or less stayed still, so she reckoned she was ahead. She looked around in case she’d miraculously remembered to put a fresh glass of water on her bedside table, but all that was there was a teetering stack of books and, half-hidden beneath a slightly used tissue, her comb.
So that’s where her comb was. She looked at her watch, still on her wrist: half past ten. ‘Posie?’ she called, and winced.
No answer. Romily swung her legs out of bed and stood up. She was wearing her jeans and T-shirt from the night before, but she had managed to remove her shoes. They lay beside the bed, upside down. She stepped over them and went next door to Posie’s room.
Posie had made a tent out of her duvet with one of Romily’s long-handled nets as a pole and lay inside it, reading a book by torchlight. She glanced up when Romily peered in.
‘It’s Sunday,’ she said. ‘I don’t have to go to school.’
‘I know,’ said Romily, though she was relieved to hear it. She didn’t feel quite able to stand for any length of time, so she sat on the floor next to Posie’s bed, running her dry tongue around her dry mouth. ‘How was Mrs Spencer?’
‘She was fine. I beat her at charades and she let me stay up till ten.’
‘What are you reading?’
Posie showed her the cover, which featured men in armour with big helmets. ‘Romans.’
‘I don’t feel all that well today, Pose.’
‘That’s okay.’ She pointed to a stack of books beside her in the tent. ‘I’ve got loads. Did you and Ben win the quiz?’
‘I don’t think so. No, actually I can say with authority that we didn’t. We’d never have drunk so much if we’d won. When you’re older, I advise you to stay the heck away from tequila.’
‘The Romans drank aquavit.’
‘And look what happened to them. It’s probably a good idea to steer clear of that too.’
‘All right.’
Romily closed her eyes again and leaned her forehead on the side of Posie’s bed. It was quite restful in here, with the blinds drawn and only the sound of Posie turning pages.
They hadn’t won the quiz last night. Because she’d been too busy offering to have a baby for Ben.
Romily’s eyes flew open and she sat up straight. She hardly noticed the spike of headache.
Ben. That list. The last sentence all in capitals. They’d had more drinks and he’d put her in a taxi but she had the list folded up in her back pocket. She reached down and touched the corner of it, still there and real.
‘Romily? Why are you staring at me like that?’
She’d talked about a turkey baster. She’d said she’d do anything for him.
Her mind whirred backwards, trying to remember everything she’d said, in two strands: one about having a baby for him, and one about what she’d said otherwise, about how she felt. What had he heard? What had he understood?
He’d thanked her. He’d kissed her.
‘I’m trying to read,’ Posie said.
Romily jumped to her feet. ‘Toast. I’m making toast. Want some?’
‘Can I have it in my tent?’
‘Sure.’ Romily beat a retreat out of the bedroom and through the darkened lounge to the kitchenette, a cramped den of a space that Romily always thought looked as if it had been tacked on as an afterthought. She unplugged the kettle, plugged in the toaster, and put in the last two slices of bread, leaving the end because Posie didn’t like it. She poured herself a large glass of water and stood, not drinking it, chewing on her lip.
‘Shit,’ she said out loud to the cereal boxes, the dried-out basil plant, the unwashed mug in the sink. ‘I am a fucking idiot.’
Maybe Ben had been really drunk, too. Maybe this morning he wouldn’t even remember their conversation.
Who was she kidding? He’d remember every word. Ben never forgot anything, and he’d certainly never forget something like this. She took the paper from her back pocket and there it was, in black and white, in her own, more than slightly wobbly handwriting: SEVEN: ROMILY WILL HAVE THE BABY FOR YOU!!!
She crumpled it up into a tiny ball and chucked it into the bin. On second thoughts she didn’t want it in landfill for ever; she took it out and stuffed it into the compost pot, beneath tea bags and a banana peel. It would go out into the garden and the slugs would eat it into lacy holes, wasps would chew it up to make nests.
At least she didn’t feel hungover any more. Amazing what a whole-body panic-driven adrenaline surge could do for you. It was an entirely different type of sickness that was coursing through her body. She washed her hands and splashed her face in the kitchen sink, but it didn’t help. When the toast popped up, she smeared margarine and honey on it and brought it on a plate to Posie’s room.
‘Thanks, Centurion,’ said Posie without looking up from her book. Romily didn’t quite trust her voice not to give something away, even as absorbed as Posie was with the Romans, so she made a random sound and went into the bathroom to switch on the hot water.
In the mirror she looked as rough as she’d expected to, with the added benefit of a wild, hunted look in her eyes. It was the expression of a person who’d inadvertently given away the most important secret of their life and was waiting for the axe to fall.
Eleven years of keeping her mouth shut, of looking away, of smiling and going along and pretending. And then a shot or two of tequila was all it took, in the end.
‘Stupid,’ she muttered. ‘Stupid stupid stupid. He knows. Or if he doesn’t yet, he will.’
Because why on earth would you offer to have a baby for a man, to give up nine months of your life and etch stretchmarks into your belly and commit yourself to endless blood tests and pelvic-floor exercises, unless you were completely and utterly in love with him?
And always had been, since the moment you’d first seen him?
6
An Assignation
MEET ME IN the bar of the George Hotel in half an hour. Don’t tell anyone. B
Romily stared down at her phone. So this was how her friendship ended, on a Monday lunchtime: with a text and a meeting in secret to spare the feelings of the people they loved.
She was in Brickham Museum’s staff kitchen, ignoring the persistent dripping of the tap and the rattle of the fridge, trying to self-medicate with caffeine and sugar. Yesterday’s hangover still hadn’t disappeared. Or maybe it was pure, naked fear that was making her head ache and her stomach lurch.
On Saturday night, Ben had been too preoccupied with thinking about having a baby to realize the true meaning of Romily’s offer. But he’d had time now, to think it through. And now he was meeting her to talk about it. From today, their friendship would be over. Or worse, it would be stilted. Every time they were together, she’d be wondering if he was thinking, She’s in love with me. Ben was decent; he’d be concerned. He’d be dismayed. He’d feel sorry for her. She’d watch him being cautious with his words, with his gestures, so as not to lead her on. All of their easy comradeship, the way they could take the piss out of each other, the way they didn’t have to talk but could talk if they wanted to … it would be gone. He would be being kind, rather than being her friend.
She wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Maybe it was best not to go. If it was over, it was over; why talk about it? They could make a clean break. Never talk again. It would hurt, but she could move on. It would be better than
drawing out the torture for years.
But she couldn’t do that to Posie.
Romily gulped down the rest of her extra-strong, extra-sweet instant coffee. It had gone cold. She checked the clock on the kitchen wall, which told her she had twenty minutes to get across the centre of town to the George.
‘Damn it,’ she said, and went to find her coat.
It was raining, an icy February rain that trickled down the back of her scarfless neck. She shoved her hands in her coat pockets and tried not to think about the conversation that was awaiting her.
The thing is, he would say, I’m so flattered, Romily.
The thing is, I love Claire.
The thing is, I’ve never thought of you like that.
He would say it kindly. He might touch her hand.
The George was a functional red-brick slab on the west side of town. It housed business travellers and conferences and was unlikely to attract anyone she or Ben knew. Romily looked for Ben’s car outside, but either he hadn’t turned up yet or he’d parked it somewhere out of sight. She took a deep breath and pushed through the revolving door to the lobby.
Inside, the hotel was entirely anonymous, modern in a way that was clean and inoffensive. There were a few people at the desk and sitting in the scattered armchairs drinking coffee or reading their mobile phones, but none of them took any notice of Romily as she crossed the polished floor towards the bar. It was, she realized, the perfect place for a secret meeting. No one cared what anyone else was doing; everyone was quiet and discreet. It was just the sort of hotel you’d choose if you were carrying on an affair.
On Saturday night he’d reached across the table, taken her head in his hands, and kissed her. Romily could still feel Ben’s lips on hers, the hard pressure, the heat of his skin.
