Messy, Wonderful Us

by Catherine Isaac

  ‘I’ll go for a long one tomorrow,’ he says.

  She turns and walks to the dresser to pick up a bottle of perfume, which she spritzes on her wrists. The scent floats upwards, drifting across the room and filling his face. He wants to sneeze but he can’t.

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ he murmurs. ‘Thanks.’

  She walks to the bed and bends down to stroke his hair, as if he’s ill. ‘Ed, is everything all right?’ she sighs.

  He looks up at her, but doesn’t need to say that it isn’t. She already knows. She must. Suddenly, she looks frightened by the silence and he wants to say something to reassure her that everything between them will be okay. But the words don’t come. He reaches out and clasps her fingers briefly, before letting go.

  Physically, she is still the same woman that captivated him from the moment he met her. Yet today, he looks at those Tiffany-blue eyes, the subtle curve of her cupid’s bow, and is numb to them. What she turned him into at the beginning, Superman reinvented, is a part of his personality he can no longer access.

  ‘Well, listen. I had an idea,’ she begins. The cheery note in her voice hangs between them like a spiderweb, threatening to break under the slightest pressure. ‘Could you spare me an hour today?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I thought we could go for a romantic lunch. My treat. Just like at the beginning. Then . . . we could see where the afternoon takes us.’ The corner of her mouth turns up playfully as she slides her hand under the sheets, reaching for his skin. He sits up and she withdraws.

  ‘I’ve got a big meeting at one,’ he says, and it’s the truth. ‘It’s likely to go on for the rest of the day. Sorry.’

  He can see a shimmer of new tears in her eyes and his stomach twists. There was once a time when all he wanted was to make her happy. When every song he listened to had some relevance to her. When a single text from her had the ability to transform a terrible day into a magnificent one.

  ‘Okay,’ she manages.

  She bends down to kiss him on the forehead. Her lip gloss feels sticky on his skin as she walks to the door. She pauses before turning around. ‘I love you, Ed. So much,’ she whispers.

  He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat closes up.

  ‘See you later.’ She slips out of the door.

  When he hears her Range Rover crunching out of the drive, he picks up the remote control and turns on the television. There is a news story about events in Aleppo; a child on the screen, who can’t be older than three years old, covered in rubble and blood, his eyes glazed with fear and shock. The newscaster explains that he is one of the few survivors of a barrel bomb attack on a nursery school in the Saif al-Dawla district.

  Ed is hit by a wave of repulsion, at the world we live in, at himself. So he has a marriage that has not lived up to his lofty expectations, that isn’t as solid as everyone around him thinks. So what? His are pathetic, first world problems compared with what that little boy has endured.

  He reminds himself to be grateful for everything he’s got. Not just the things. The things have never been what motivated him. They’re just garnish, though he’ll admit that he got a schoolboy buzz out of buying the car. He’d dreamt of driving something like that since he was eight years old and got a Scalextric for Christmas, neither noticing nor caring that it was second-hand and blew the fairy lights every time he took a sharp bend.

  The things he really values though – they’re there. He has a mother and father who are still alive, healthy and together. He has friends, some just the kind you’d go for a pint with, one or two for whom he’d lay down his life. And he has his work – his passion and purpose. The fact that he didn’t always feel this positive about the business gives him hope. That, no matter how miserable something makes him, it always passes. Ed is a man who makes the best of things. He always has.

  He closes his eyes momentarily before grabbing his phone and clicking on his emails. Three hundred and forty-seven unread messages load on the screen and his eyes blur. Then he pulls the covers off the bed, sits up and draws air into his lungs before making a decision. Tonight, it’s time for him and Julia to talk.

  Chapter 12

  Allie

  By the end of July, the university campus has the air of a ghost town. The limestone slabs that stretch between science buildings are empty, the clusters of students reclining on the grass of Abercromby Square gone. Only academic staff linger, so few of us comparatively that it’s almost as if the world outside my office has stilled, become idle and drowsy in the heat. Yet, the pace of my working life hasn’t slackened and turning on my out of office leaves me with a familiar, uneasy feeling.

  I eat the last of the Roses in my desk drawer, grab the new edition of the Journal of Physiology and head over to the lab, in a recently constructed building adjacent to my office. I push open the door to find Khalid with his head down, one eye pressed against a microscope, his tattooed arms and Guns ’N’ Roses T-shirt – because it’s always a Guns ‘N’ Roses T-shirt – concealed beneath his white coat.

  ‘Knock, knock,’ I say brightly, but when he lifts his head he appears unsurprised to see me.

  ‘I’m beginning to think you don’t trust me to look after this project while you’re away.’

  ‘Of course I trust you. Besides, it’s only the legwork left to do.’ He flashes me a look. ‘Crucial legwork, obviously. What are you up to?’

  ‘Just checking the culture. The cells are looking really healthy.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

  When Khalid was employed as a post-doc researcher to support my work after he’d finished his PhD, I don’t think either of us could’ve predicted that we’d soon be on the brink of a breakthrough as significant as this.

  For the last two years, I have been collaborating with a group at the University of Chapel Hill in North Carolina on a novel gene-editing technique known as CRISPR-Cas9. The potential for this technology is both massive and widely known within my field; researchers all over the world are currently investigating ways that it might ultimately lead to the golden egg, a cure for cystic fibrosis. Now, our little group – Khalid and I in the UK and three other researchers in the US – is so close we can almost touch it.

  The technique works through its ability to repair the defective gene responsible for cystic fibrosis known as CFTR. What our group has done is design a method that delivers the CRISPR machinery directly into primary cells grown in the lab which have been taken from the lungs of CF patients. Until now, nobody has achieved this degree of success at reaching the target in this type of cell, in this environment. Once there, we’ve also demonstrated that it successfully repairs the defective gene and results in a normally functioning protein. What we’re now trying to prove is that it can do this more efficiently than any method that’s ever been developed before.

  If this is the case, this technology has the potential to correct literally any of the thousands of mutations that cause CF. So it’s big. We may, just may, be working on what will ultimately see the end of a disease that currently affects more than 70,000 people worldwide, drastically limits life expectancy and presents the kind of daily challenges to those affected that most of us can’t begin to imagine.

  ‘So when do you fly off to Portugal?’ Khalid asks.

  ‘Sunday morning.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be packing?’

  ‘I’ve done most of it already. I just thought I’d pop in and see if there was anything to report before I leave.’

  ‘Not since you last popped in . . . ooh, four hours ago.’ He smiles impishly.

  ‘Just so you know,’ I continue, ignoring the comment, ‘I’ve put my out of office on, but that’s only for everyone else – not you. I absolutely will be responding to emails from you.’

  ‘Okay, I get it. So, who are you going away with?’

  ‘It’s . . . a singles holiday,’ I reply and a gap appears between his lips, as if he’s viewing me i
n a new and unexpected light.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, why?’ I say, feeling a bloom of heat on my neck.

  ‘Well, I just didn’t have you down as the kind of person . . . I mean, if I’d known you were in the market for . . .’

  ‘For what? Charming nineteenth-century architecture and the castle ruins of the Duoro Valley? Absolutely. I can’t wait.’

  *

  The following day, I go for lunch at a new place in Lark Lane with Petra and another colleague, Gill, who last week announced that she’s pregnant. The tiny cafe is different from our regular haunts near the university, with a bohemian, relaxed vibe.

  ‘We’ve got my scan tomorrow,’ Gill tells us, sipping her mineral water.

  ‘Are you going to find out if it’s a girl or boy?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, they don’t do that at the first scan, Allie,’ she tells me, with the air of a woman who’s read a hundred baby magazines and can’t fathom why everyone else on earth wouldn’t know this. ‘This one is to find a due date, check the baby’s development and measure the nuchal fold, to identify potential Down’s Syndrome. There’s only a very narrow window in which that can be done, between eleven to thirteen weeks, so they won’t do it after then. You only find out the sex at twenty weeks.’

  ‘Ah. Now I know,’ I say, glancing at Petra, who smirks into her couscous.

  The rest of the lunch is spent discussing morning sickness, epidurals and some unusual gastrointestinal symptoms that make me fairly relieved to return home to clean my flat and finish packing. I travel quite regularly; cystic fibrosis conferences are held in both the US and Europe every year and I always attend, even if I’m not presenting. I’ve been on holiday with Ruth for the last couple of years, and before then it was Rob. We always had a nice time, but he had such ferocious prickly heat on the last trip that my overriding memory is of being indoors, rubbing calamine lotion on his back.

  The singles holiday to Portugal is a smokescreen I’m starting to regret. Even Dad’s eyes widened slightly when I told him I was holidaying alone, as if it involved sitting on a coach next to strange men in brown macs, fingers poised on my rape alarm.

  Still, it’s easier than the truth, that I’m going in search of a man who could be my birth father. Could be. That’s as far as my thinking will stretch, because I am still hopeful that, even if something did happen between my mother and Stefano McCourt, my father could still be the man I’ve always thought he was. Perhaps I’m imagining the physical similarities between Stefano and me. Perhaps they’re coincidence. One thing is certain though: I’ll get no more information out of Grandma Peggy, even if I was brave enough to try again. And I wouldn’t dare ask Granddad after the warning she gave me.

  Aside from Ged McKenzie, there is only one person who knows what I’ll actually be doing for the next two weeks and that’s Ed. But he’s been noticeably un-opinionated about it, so wrapped up in work recently that he’s become a virtual stranger. I did consider telling Petra about it over lunch, but one of the things I’ve always loved about our friendship is that it never strays into territory I’d consider difficult. We don’t burden our relationship by sharing innermost secrets or troubles, we simply enjoy a bottle of wine together, have a laugh and a good gossip about work.

  I stuff the last of my toiletries into my luggage and lay out my passport, along with the budget airline tickets that had seemed a bargain, until I realised they charged extra for checking in a bag, checking in yourself and failing to bring your own air to breathe.

  My phone rings and Julia’s name flashes up, to my surprise. The only previous time I can remember her calling me was when she wanted my help in contacting Ed’s old school friends for a birthday party last year. I call Julia a friend, but the unspoken truth is that our relationship would probably not exist independently of him. But I remind myself that our mutual respect and enjoyment of each other’s company still amounts to something significant and worthwhile, even if it’s not cocooned by the same easy familiarity as my relationship with Ed.

  ‘Hi, Julia. How are you?’

  A broken response follows, her voice intermittently silent as the signal falters. ‘Sorry, Julia, this is a terrible line. Can I ring you back?’

  ‘I’m outside your flat,’ I make out. ‘Have you got five minutes?’

  I open the door to find Julia in slim white jeans and an oversized cashmere sweater that reveals the creamy curve of a single tanned shoulder. The soft strands of her golden hair cascade down her back and, except for her eyes, which are pink and anxious, she reminds me of a model in a White Company catalogue.

  I invite her in and move a stack of laundry from the sofa so she can sit down. I clear away a glass from the table and notice a faint circle of tea, staining the wood like ink on blotting paper. Compared with Ed and Julia’s house, my flat feels scruffy and haphazard, something I can’t explain away by the money they’ve spent on it. Their home is the manifestation of exquisite taste, attention to detail, expert use of colour and fabric.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t got any wine to offer you. The fridge is empty. I’m going on holiday tomorrow morning,’ I tell her.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly, Allie.’

  ‘I can get you some coffee though. Or peppermint tea?’

  She gives me a little nod. ‘That would be lovely.’

  I make my way to the kitchen and dig out the tea I opened last time she came here, realising it’s now out of date. I’m midway through sniffing it when Julia appears at the door.

  ‘Sorry, would coffee do? I’ve only got instant,’ I say, realising this is the second time I’ve apologised.

  She’s not listening though. Instead, she lifts her fingers to her forehead and begins to gently rub it as her expression crumples.

  ‘Julia, what’s the matter?’

  She begins to sob. I step towards her automatically, then freeze, panic billowing up in me. She wipes away tears with the flat of her hand. ‘Ed is threatening to leave me.’

  ‘What? I mean . . . why?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m still trying to work that out.’

  ‘Are you sure, Julia? Ed adores you.’

  As she lowers her eyes, a tear that has been clinging to the rim of her eye escapes and slips down her cheek. ‘You probably think it’s odd that I came here. Forgive me if this is an intrusion. I know you and I . . . we’ve never really been close.’

  Guilt prickles under my skin. It’s true that Julia isn’t the kind of person to whom I’d automatically gravitate. I can’t ever imagine her family dinners being the noisy affairs ours are, with Granddad telling jokes and Dad playing blues on his guitar, nor getting drunk with her on a Friday night like I do with Petra or Ruth. But I could have tried to get to know her better, spent time with her without Ed, and I didn’t. Instead of making an effort, I actively avoided it.

  ‘There’s just no one else who knows Ed better than you do. He admires and trusts you, Allie. Can I . . . can I tell you what’s been happening?’ she continues.

  I feel a rush of cold moisture under my arms, already out of my comfort zone. But it isn’t just that I owe it to both of them to listen. I’m astonished and, above all, worried about Ed. I invite her into the living room and, after sitting down opposite me, she begins to talk.

  ‘He won’t recognise it, but Ed is under a huge amount of stress from the business. You know how driven and single-minded he is. He acts as though there’s no problem on earth that he couldn’t deal with. But the pressure has really started to affect him. He’s always been so lovely . . . is so lovely,’ she says hastily. ‘But he’s changed.’

  Her words make me realise that something has been tugging at the back of my mind lately, like a puppy that I’ve failed to pay enough attention to. Ed hasn’t been himself, she’s right. I’d told myself that he was simply busy, focused on a big deal or a new venture. It’s clearly more than that and I feel ashamed that I didn’t realise it.

  ‘Part of me wonders if he’s having some kind
of breakdown. I made the mistake of suggesting he get some professional help, but instead . . . he thinks that everything’s gone wrong between us. He’s blaming me.’

  ‘Why would it be your fault?’

  Her smooth forehead puckers. ‘We have had rows, Allie.’ The pain of this confession glitters in the film on her eyes. And it is a confession. To admit that they’re not the perfect couple everyone assumes takes bravery on her part, one I feel a new admiration for.

  ‘A few rows are normal in a relationship,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ve been part of a family for long enough to know that. Plus, Ed doesn’t want a Stepford wife.’

  She sighs. ‘I just have a horrible feeling that I don’t make him happy anymore, Allie.’

  Julia is one of the most capable women I’ve ever met. I don’t only mean that she has a high-flying career as a lawyer and sits on the board of two charities. She’s simply one of those women you know would never use the wrong fork at a dinner or lean in to kiss someone on the cheek and end up smashing noses. You could put her in any given situation, any crisis, and she would handle it with grace. Yet, now, as she sits opposite me, she looks as vulnerable as a lost child. Unexpectedly, I feel a rush of sympathy, followed swiftly by overwhelming concern about Ed.

  ‘I used to make him happy,’ she continues. ‘I know I did. There was a time when he’d light up when I walked into a room. I’d text him and he’d respond straight away, desperate to see me. But Ed needs excitement. He gets bored. And, after three years, the gloss has worn off. I ought to have known it would. He hasn’t said it, but right now I think he honestly believes he’d be happier alone.’

  ‘No,’ I say automatically. ‘I can’t believe he thinks that. Because he wouldn’t.’

  She looks at me, as if I’m missing the most obvious point. A fact so big and unavoidable that as soon as she says it, it takes on a greater volume than that at which it was uttered. ‘Ed could have any woman he wants, Allie.’

  ‘But he’s never wanted anyone else. Not since he met you.’