‘Thanks. I’m feeling so drained though. If you transfer the cash, I’ll order some bits online.’
I nod my agreement, and after scribbling down her address for me so I can always find her if I need to, she’s gone.
I use the loo before I head for my car, rooting around in my bag for my keys. Broken glass crunching under my feet stops me in my tracks. Raising my head, blood roars in my ears as I see my car window is smashed. A prickle of unease causes me to whip my head around. Is someone there? Hiding behind the van, waiting to see my reaction? Crouching behind the wall leading to the beer garden? Thoughts ricochet as I try to rationalise what might have happened. Could someone have accidentally fallen against my car? Their elbow penetrating the glass? I dismiss each idea as it comes. The window is thick.
I peer inside the car. There is a brick on the passenger seat. Someone has done this deliberately. There’s a clattering sound behind me, and I gasp and spin around, but it’s only the barman tipping empty bottles into a plastic bin. He heads back into the pub, and there is only me left in the car park, but somehow, I don’t feel alone. Another sound springs at me, something I can’t identify, and I scuttle back to the pub. Back to warmth. Back to safety.
My eyes are fixed on the floor as I swerve to avoid a broken bottle. But before I reach the door, I round the corner and run smack into someone. My eyes take in his dirty trainers, dark blue denims, white shirt, and finally settle on his face.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he says.
22
Now
I hadn’t recognised the man who’d said he had been looking for me but he had introduced himself as the landlord of the pub.
‘I’m so sorry. One of the regulars told me a 4 x 4 had been broken into. There’s been a spate of it, I’m afraid. Do you want me to call the police?’
He had walked me over to my car, and I’d checked the contents – nothing had been stolen.
‘No. Let me ring my husband.’
The landlord had checked the other cars as I called Nick. His phone was switched off, and I’d been overcome with a wave of needing him. To feel his arms around me. I was exhausted, unnerved and longing to be at home.
‘Do you think you could patch it somehow?’ I had asked the landlord. ‘I can get it repaired properly tomorrow.’
Now, I crawl along the back roads, the wind buffeting the car; the thick layer of polythene taped to the window flaps loudly in my ear. I ease off the accelerator, even though I am only going 35 mph in a 60 zone. I rehearse telling Nick our news, but the words I practise sound too clunky, too convoluted. The constant stream of cold air seeping through a gap in the polythene stiffens my neck, making my head ache. My muscles are tension-tight. I’m going to have a baby. We are going to have a baby. I force myself to think of Nick because it has only now properly occurred to me this baby will have Jake’s genes too. Possibly Jake’s warm green eyes, his dazzling dimpled smile and, if so, every time I look at my child I will be reminded of the lover I lost. The more I think, the more uncomfortable I feel. Disloyal, almost, as though I am sullying my wedding vows to forsake all others. For the first time, I question whether this was a bad idea. Whether we should have tried adopting again. But it’s too late now, and in spite of everything, I can’t be sorry. We’re going to be parents.
It is gloomy-dark despite it being only teatime, and as traffic pours out of a nearby industrial estate, we come to a standstill. On a whim, I text Nick.
What are you up to this evening?
Missing you. Just leaving work. Going to eat toast in bed and watch NCIS
Nick’s a good cook but never bothers when I’m not there. I think it would be a nice surprise to pretend I’ll still be gone overnight and arrive home in an hour with a curry.
You back tomorrow? Are you okay?
My thumb punches out Yes.
The traffic edges forward again. I start to plan what I’ll pick up from the Indian and, as I think about the creamy sauces, fragrant spices and tender pieces of chicken, my stomach growls. Leaning over I open the glovebox and pull out a tube of Fruit Pastilles and pop one onto my tongue, glad it’s a yellow one. The sugar begins to melt and my mouth tingles with a citrus zing that immediately makes me feel more awake than I am. Walking home from school, Nancy would often call into the newsagents and let us choose a treat. We’d always want Fruit Pastilles. I’d trade my red one for Lisa’s orange ones, and Jake would always eat his black ones first. We’d count down from three before placing a sweet in our mouths, regularly sticking our tongues out to compare how small they were getting. Lisa could never resist chewing, and by the time we reached her house me and Jake would still have a slither of the jelly sweet on our tongues while Lisa would have eaten all her packet and want mine.
Usually I park on the driveway but, with the window missing on the CRV, tonight I bypass our cul-de-sac and trundle down the lane leading to our garage. I slot the car in amongst Nick’s golf clubs, the Black & Decker Workbench, and the array of tools he never uses. Opening the door, the musty smell of the garage mingles with the aroma of korma drifting out of the takeout bag on my passenger seat.
I let myself into the house via the back door. The kitchen is gloomy except for the green glow of the clock on the hob. I flick on the light switch. The oven tick-tick-ticks before it ignites, and I place the foil containers of food on the bottom shelf to keep warm. The fridge whirrs in the corner, and jars of chutney chink together as I yank open the door. My hand reaches for the just-in-case bottle of M&S champagne we always keep in the salad drawer, but it seems wrong somehow to celebrate the life of one child when another has been lost. I’m exhausted from the day, from the drive. I bite back the urge to cry as I pull out a bottle of Pinot instead and lift two glasses from the cupboard.
I don’t switch on the landing light as I creep past the empty lounge and up the stairs, I don’t want to alert Nick to my presence. Before I reach our room, I slip into the nursery and, easing open a drawer, rummage through the pile of vests, holding each one up to the night light, before I find the white one with ‘I love my Daddy’ written in red.
Despite my sadness, excitement mounts as I pad across the landing, and it is only then do I notice the silence. No TV. No NCIS. Tucking the bottle under my arm, I picture a smile spreading across Nick’s face as I tell him Lisa is still pregnant, and slowly I push open the door. The room is in darkness, and disappointment wells as I think Nick must have fallen asleep. I hesitate, unsure whether to wake him, but I can’t hear the heaviness of his breathing. I can’t hear anything at all. Flicking on the light, I wait a few moments for my eyes to adjust but I don’t have to see to know that Nick isn’t here.
Frustration bubbles as I put down the wine and glasses and tweezer open two slats of the blind with my thumb and index finger. Our driveway, the space where Nick’s car should be, is empty. I call his mobile. I’m spoiling the surprise now but I don’t care. It rings and rings until the voicemail clicks in. I cut the call before sinking on the bed, unsure what to do.
Seconds later my mobile beeps.
Sorry babe. At a crucial point in NCIS. Can I call you later?
My chest tightens but I tell myself I must have got it wrong. He must be watching it with Richard, but on the blank, silent TV screen I imagine I see images of the lipstick on Nick’s shirt. I punch out a reply.
Where are you?
Tucked up in bed. Wishing you were here.
My phone slips from my grasp and on the feather-soft duvet I curl into a ball, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around my legs, as though I can keep my sorrow inside. As though I can keep my marriage intact.