Читать книгу Love Is... - Haley Hill - Страница 9

Chapter 3

Before I opened the front door, I noticed the hall light was off. Nick wasn’t home yet.

‘Of course, out drinking,’ I mumbled under my breath, although fully aware there was no one to hear me.

I ruffled my umbrella, drops of rain splattering up the walls, then I bent the spokes back into line and shoved it into the stand next to Nick’s giant work-branded golf umbrella. It baffled me why corporations seemed so keen to advertise that they employed people who played golf in the rain.

After I’d shaken my coat and hung it over the radiator, I made my way into the kitchen. I looked around the empty room, then opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine. It had been almost a year of not drinking, priming my body for reproduction, but now I was looking forward to drowning my non-compliant ovaries in Pinot Grigio.

I leaned against the counter and poured myself a glass. As soon as I took a gulp, my nerves settled and a warm sensation spread through my veins. I took another gulp and gazed up at the ceiling, then back down at our shabby kitchen. I squinted my eyes, trying to superimpose the building plans we’d had drawn up years ago onto the sixties-style laminate shambles in front of me. I knew exactly how it should look. I didn’t have far to go for inspiration. Every house on the street had been knocked through into their side-return and extended out back to create the trademark South West London statement kitchen. I took another sip and wondered if the white gloss Poggenpohl dream would ever be mine.

‘Cheers,’ I said to the peeling work surface. ‘Me and my kitchen, living the dream.’

I took another gulp and then checked my phone. It was 7 p.m. I called Nick. No answer. I took another gulp of wine and called Matthew to rant.

There a clattering noise in the background when he answered. ‘Twice in one day,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m honoured.’

‘Can you talk?’ I asked.

He sighed. ‘I can talk, and I would love to talk. However, the real question is whether I will be allowed to talk.’ There was the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by wailing. ‘Shit. I mean, sugar,’ he said.

‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

There was silence, a muffled sound and then Matthew returned. ‘Little sod keeps falling off his chair.’ There was a faint sobbing in the background. ‘It’s this bloody booster seat. I’m sure it has an eject button. There you go, Zachary. Now eat your pasta.’

‘Shall I call you back?’

‘No, no. Are you OK?’

I took another gulp of wine. I knew he would know better than to ask me directly about ‘the test’.

‘Angelica, leave the vase.’

‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘It’s just—’

Suddenly there was another crash followed by a scream. ‘Fuck. I mean, fudge. Fiddlesticks.’

‘Look, I’ll call you back tomorrow,’ I said.

‘No, no.’ Matthew’s tone had an urgency to it. ‘We can talk now.’ He paused, then made a strange squealing noise. ‘Angelica, sweetheart, please don’t eat the broken glass.’

I grimaced. ‘It sounds kind of hectic there?’

‘Just another day in paradise,’ he said. ‘Zachary, eat the pasta, don’t stick it up your nose.’

I thought for a moment about telling him the result, but I realised he’d probably guessed anyway. Besides, any mention would most likely provoke a diatribe about some study linking new parents to suicidal tendencies.

‘Don’t suppose you fancy coming to a divorce party with me next Friday night?’ I asked.

‘Angelica, I said no! Hang on, Ellie, I should really sweep up this glass.’

I continued, ‘I need some company and Nick’s entertaining clients. Again.’

His pitch suddenly increased. ‘A party?’ he said. ‘One that doesn’t involve soft play, chicken nuggets, or a balloon-wielding entertainer?’

I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I’m in.’

‘Don’t you need to arrange a sitter or something?’

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s about time their mother did some mothering.’

The bottle of Pinot Grigio was almost empty by the time I heard Nick’s key in the lock. My throat dried up as I mouthed the words I would say to him. I downed the remainder of the wine, and mouthed them again. It was almost as if the act of saying them out loud would make them more final.

We will never have children.

I’d said it in my mind over and over all day: in the pauses between conversations with Mandi, in the lulls during the investor meeting, while Dominic sashayed around the office. Even wiping my bottom in the toilet had felt melancholic. Mine would be the only bottom I would ever wipe, I’d thought. I’d never change a nappy or lovingly slather Sudocrem on a rashy crack. Every thought seemed to extrapolate into a video projection of never-to-be-realised moments: the first steps, a tender kiss at bedtime, nursing a grazed knee, adjusting a school tie, a comforting cuddle when the world seemed cruel. Being a mother had so many facets. And I would know none of them.

I twirled my empty glass by its stem and looked out beyond our neighbour’s roof at the tiny glimpse of sky. I liked to think my mother and father were up there somewhere, looking down, keeping tabs on the little three-year-old girl they left behind. Suddenly I found myself laughing. It seemed so unfair, almost deliberately orchestrated, to be denied a mother and then to be denied motherhood too. I dropped my head into my hands, knocking the glass to the floor.

Nick rushed into the kitchen. From his furrowed brow and teary eyes, I could tell he already knew. Maybe Victoria had told him, maybe he’d guessed. He smiled, but I knew it was for my benefit. He put his arms around me and pulled me into his damp coat. I hugged him tightly and buried my head in his chest.

After a while, he lifted my chin and looked into my eyes.

‘It’s OK, Ellie,’ he said.

I knew he must be hurting as much as I was, and that now was the time we needed more than ever to love each other, but when I smelled whiskey on his breath, I felt my muscles tense. I pulled away.

‘Well, it might be OK for you,’ I said, with a sharp sigh.

Nick cocked his head, as though trying to make sense of my sudden change of tone.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

He leaned forward and stared at me. ‘You’re saying I’m glad it didn’t work?’

‘I’m saying,’ I began, then paused just to be sure I wanted to continue, ‘you didn’t try as hard as I did.’

He stepped back, eyes wide. ‘Seriously, Ellie? What is wrong with you?’

I glared at him. ‘Wrong with me? You’re the one who’s spent the past year partying like the Wolf of bloody Wall Street. No wonder we couldn’t conceive.’

He frowned. ‘Partying?’

‘You’re out every night.’

‘Working.’

‘Drinking.’

He ran his hands through his hair. ‘You know I hate entertaining. Drinking is the only way I can tolerate a night with those egotistical Neanderthals.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, poor suffering you.’

‘Besides,’ he added, frown turning to a scowl, ‘lately, it’s been preferable to being at home.’

I jumped to my feet. ‘Oh really?’ I said.

‘Yeah, you’ve totally lost it, Ellie.’ He walked to the wine rack and grabbed a bottle of red. ‘If it’s not wheatgrass shots, it’s acupuncture, then there’s those ridiculous “hypnotise yourself into getting pregnant” bullshit podcasts you watch. And if you’re not doing that, then you’re on those barmy forums. You and the army of infertiles, inciting each other to drink five litres of milk or eat a kilogram of cashews, all charting each other’s cycles like you’re in some kind of crazy baby-making coven.’ He paused to unscrew the top and pour himself a glass. ‘Seriously, Ellie, you’ve been a nightmare to live with.’

I snatched the bottle from him. ‘Well, at least I’ve been making an effort,’ I said, pouring a glass. ‘You, on the other hand, have been doing everything you possibly can to sabotage this whole process. You’ve pretty much done the opposite of everything the consultant told you to do.’

Nick grabbed back the bottle and slammed it on the counter. ‘Ellie, I’ve done it all. I’ve had every test under the bloody sun. I’ve had sex on demand. I’ve taken all manner of weird supplements. I’ve even worn ventilated boxer shorts. I’ve tolerated your obsession with trying to control the uncontrollable and now, if I’m totally honest, I’m relieved.’

‘Relieved?’

‘Yes, relieved there’s an end to it.’ He paused. ‘No more fawning over baby clothes, no more debates about buggy brands, or cots versus cot-beds. No more planning our weekends, holidays, furniture, house, careers, around the fact that you might or could potentially in the future be pregnant. No more pseudo maternity wear.’ He gestured to the wrap-around jersey dress I was wearing, bought in anticipation that it might accommodate a small mound in the early summer.

I glared at him. ‘I’m bloated from the hormones. Sorry I don’t feel like prancing around in a pencil skirt.’

He glared back at me. ‘And a sex life would be nice. At least one that isn’t scheduled around the optimisation of sperm quality.’

I stepped back, hand on one hip, the other brandishing my wine glass. ‘So that’s it? Sex is more important to you than having a family.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘If sex were more important to me, then I wouldn’t have dedicated my most virile years to wanking into a plastic cup.’

‘Oh—’ I accidentally sloshed some wine onto the floor ‘—I forgot. I must remember to be grateful.’ I gulped the wine down before I spilled any more. ‘It’s not as though I haven’t made sacrifices too. I’m the one who’s been injecting myself in the stomach every day. I’m the one who quit drinking for two whole years.’

‘Making up for it now though, aren’t you?’ he said.

I continued. ‘I’m the one who’s had an entire medical team peering between my legs and extracting follicles from my ovaries.’

Nick screwed up his face.

‘Oh, I forgot, that’s not sexy, is it? Must remember to be sexy. Must remember to be grateful.’

Nick let out an elaborate sigh. ‘You? Be grateful? That would be a first.’

I scowled at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He sniffed. ‘Come on, Ellie, you’re never happy. You’re always waiting for the next big thing. The wedding, then the house and now it’s this obsession with having children. You can’t keep waiting to live your life. This is it, Ellie. Look around you. This is your life. Just live it, will you.’

I raised my eyebrows and then waved my arms around. ‘Great. A shitty kitchen and a drunken husband. What more could a woman want?’

Nick shook his head and smirked. ‘There are plenty of women who would be more than happy with me.’

I stared at him. ‘Ooh, had loads of offers then, have you?’

He shrugged. ‘I have actually.’

Immediately, I envisaged pert-bottomed interns bending over Nick’s filing cabinet and fluttering their eyelashes. ‘Oh really?’ I said, taking another glug of wine. ‘And?’

Nick sighed, his expression softening. ‘Ellie, I’m married. To you.’

He put his glass down and walked towards me. ‘And I want you back.’ He took my hands in his. ‘I want us back.’