I look up from my phone.
‘Sorry. Yes. Thanks,’ I say, but I know I won’t relax until I hear Kit’s voice. It’s two hours now since the eclipse, easily enough time for him to find somewhere with a signal. He reckons that once the babies are here we’ll take them eclipse chasing with us; plans are afoot for a family road trip to the States in 2017. If I’m this anxious at the thought of him on his own, how will I cope with guarding two toddlers in the middle of a crowd? I’ll be too paranoid to look up, even for a second. I don’t want to be one of those hovering, obsessive parents you see on the street, even though my fears are justified.
I push my soup away virtually untouched. On the way out, a delivery man intercepts me with a Mothercare package for Ronni next door.
‘What if it’s an omen?’ I say to Ling. She takes it from my hands and squeezes.
‘Feels more like a pair of wellies to me. Come on, let’s get you scanned.’
The last few rounds of IVF were paid for privately, but now that I’m pregnant it’s back to the NHS and the North Middlesex Hospital on the North Circular Road. How anyone’s supposed to recover from anything next to the most polluted road in London I don’t know. As usual, it smells of on-the-turn raw chicken and hand sanitiser. By the time we arrive, the babies are wrestling inside me. There is still no word from Kit and it is with reluctance that I obey the signs and switch my phone off.
My consultant, Mr Kendall, is a specialist in multiple pregnancies. He’s been with me from the beginning and he’ll deliver my babies. (Everyone, even Ling, assumes that I feel robbed of a nat-ural birth. The truth is, it’s one less thing out of my control, and I’m glad this decision was made for me.) Mr Kendall’s flawless hands – he must have them professionally manicured – inspire confidence.
‘No Christopher today?’ he asks, nails shining as he taps numbers on a keyboard.
‘He’s gone off to watch the solar eclipse in the Faroes,’ I say. ‘Last big trip before the babies come.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Always wanted to see one of those. We took the kids down to Cornwall in ’99. Probably before your time. Total wash-out, anyway.’
I smile and lie down, preparing myself for the slick of cold gel. I’m an old hand at this by now.
‘And how about you?’ says Mr Kendall. ‘When are you going to slow down?’
The truth is, I’ll be working right up to the wire. We need the money.
‘I’ll stop soon,’ I say.
Mr Kendall keeps the screen turned away from me as he slides the probe around the protruding nub of my navel and analyses the measurements. Kit would like this; this is the kind of quantifiable progress he can relate to. I must get a print-out of the numbers as well as the all-important picture.
‘They’re both growing fine,’ says Mr Kendall. ‘Your placentas are in the right place and so are the umbilici. You’re sure you don’t want to know whether they’re pink or blue?’
I turn my head away. I decided to keep their sexes a surprise from the word go, to show Kit I am, in fact, capable of being laid-back. Although Kit has never called me a control freak in so many words, he’s begged me to loosen up, slow down, take it easy and, even once, to our mutual horror, chillax, more times than I can count.
‘Oh, well this one’s definitely a . . .’
‘No!’
Mr Kendall and Ling both seem taken aback by the violence of my reaction. I aim for a joke.
‘Actually, we’re going to raise them gender-neutral. Orange clothes. As an experiment.’ It lands, but only just. It’s a relief to get out of there.
Ling gives me a lift home.
‘You sure you’re ok on your own?’ she says, even though I know she’ll be working late to make up for accompanying me.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, slamming the car door.
‘EAT SOMETHING!’ she calls, before driving off.
Back home, from the squidgy comfort of my sofa, I send a picture of the scan to Kit; he FaceTimes me by return. He’s in a bar or something, dark shadows in the background, the rim of a beer glass just in shot on the table in front of him. The signal is patchy; his newly smooth face keeps turning into squares and the black and white pattern on his Faroese jumper jumps in and out of binary code. Even chopped into pixels I can see the drag of remorse on his features. The hard cold chip of my anger starts to thaw. I don’t want us to argue again. For once, I’m the first one to end the sulk.
‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ The warmth in my voice is the real thing.
‘Everything’s as it should be?’ he asks. ‘They’re growing at the right rate? No horns or tails?’
‘They’re perfect.’ He twitches a little smile. Only now do I remember why we’re having this conversation on the phone and not in person. ‘Sorry, baby, tell me about the eclipse. Were you completely clouded out?’
‘Worst one yet,’ he says dolefully. ‘What about in London?’
‘Shite.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he says. Kit’s voice is completely devoid of expression and my early warning system stirs into action. I search his face for clues but it’s dark and the picture quality is poor.
‘Something’s wrong,’ I say. ‘Something’s happened because of that sodding video.’
‘It wasn’t the video,’ he says.
So something is wrong. I feel my skin start to prickle. ‘What wasn’t the video? What’s going on?’
The signal falters again; his words click and screech like dolphin song.
‘Look, don’t worry. I’ll be back on the boat soon, and then we can both relax.’
I scratch the arm that’s holding the phone. ‘Why can’t you relax on dry land? Kit?’ I can hear my voice going shrill and interrogative. I know it’s like poking a snail’s antenna; he’ll only retreat into himself, but I can’t help it. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No.’