Now Jack would be saying how much they wanted to be parents, how Cassie wanted to be a mum.
David frowns at me. ‘Alice, what is it? What’s on your mind?’ He knows – of course he knows – that there’s something I’m not telling him.
I force myself to turn the radio station off in my head.
‘There’s just some stuff I keep thinking about.’
‘Like what?’
I might not be able quite yet to tell him about our baby, I think, but I can tell him about Cassie at least.
‘When Cassie first came in, Charlotte, her mother-in-law, brought in a bag of pyjamas and stuff for her.’
David nods for me to keep talking.
‘I found a letter, from Cassie to Jack, saying she wanted a break, some time away.’
‘OK.’
‘She’d taken her engagement and wedding rings off. I think she was running away, David.’
‘Seriously, Alice?’
It all sounded so paranoid out loud, not the quiet sense it made in my head.
‘I thought she was looking for her dog?’ He pauses. ‘Don’t forget how crazy Bob goes when he hears fireworks. A rescue dog in a new home would be really jumpy, and remember when you thought you’d lost your engagement ring?’ He gets up, pours himself another coffee.
I’d forgotten about that. I’d left my engagement ring in my jeans pocket when I went swimming one day, and spent the next week pulling the house apart trying to find it. I grab a second croissant.
‘And you know, every couple has their tough times, don’t they? The fact that she never gave Jack the letter is telling. Maybe she wrote it for catharsis and never meant to give it to him.’
My conviction evaporates like a magic trick. I decide not to tell David about Jonny’s eyes, how he looked like a man losing someone he loved, or about the gossiping on the ward about paternity.
‘Sorry.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t know why I’m …’
‘You’re just protective, Ali. Of course you are. It makes total sense; the stakes are even higher with this patient than they are normally. I get it.’ He hands me a coffee, and I take a sip; it’s caffeinated so I put it back on the table.
He sits opposite me again, and crosses his legs. He’s moving faster than normal; he’s nervous.
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Why are you so jumpy?’
He uncrosses his legs and rubs his hands over his cheeks; he’s smiling. Something’s up, and he’s excited about something. Maybe he’s got a dream client? Maybe we’ve finally got enough in our holiday fund for the long trip we’re always promising ourselves?
‘I’ve been thinking, Ali … I’d really like it if we could fill out the forms for the adoption agency.’
Our eyes meet and I look away again immediately; every cell in my body seems to perform a little jump. David keeps talking.
‘I know you couldn’t think about it before, but that was over a year ago now. Remember, they said the process will take quite a while, so I just thought I’d fill out the initial form at least, get it off and see what happens.’
I picture a row of children before us, David and I pointing to one of them and taking him or her by the hand, to be scanned like at one of those self-check-out machines. We’d bring the child back here to try and make them our child. What if we didn’t bond? What if the child didn’t like me? I try and feel the life inside me, to remind myself that none of that will happen; none of it will need to happen.
‘Ali, it’s just the initial paperwork. I promise, we will not adopt a child unless we are both absolutely certain it’s what we want.’ He curls his palm around my hand. ‘But we always agreed it could be an option for us.’
I nod, smile at him, try to look happy, excited even.
‘No, it’s a good idea. We should get the paperwork off, get the ball rolling …’
David grins at me, and I fold the last of the croissant into my mouth. He kisses me and says, ‘Love you’, as he grabs his keys and leaves for his morning meeting.
I do some admin during the day, eat a sandwich, and in the afternoon try and nap before my night shift, but I can’t settle; my mind keeps flicking like a faulty switch to Jack’s radio interview. He talked about the close-knit community in Buscombe. I’ve never been, but Buscombe is only sixteen miles from here. I heard they’ve got good walks, and I owe Bob a long walk. I look at my watch; I know I should try to nap again if I’m to have any hope of getting through the night. But I’m far too wired to rest. I work out I’ve got enough time to drive there, back home and on to Kate’s in time for my night shift. I tell myself I’ll just drive through quickly, see the place Cassie called home, and then find a wood or a field for Bob to have a good run. He clatters to his feet as I lift his lead off its hook by the back door.
Most of the journey is anonymous dual carriageway, fast-food shops and cinemas, but eventually they trickle away. Following signs, I turn off the main road and the world seems to open up, like a large powerful lung taking a deep breath; the earth seems to have more oxygen out here. Early tufts of emerald seedlings in the fields catch the light like fish scales, and daffodils and snowdrops quiver in the grass banks. I wind my window down; the breeze itself smells green out here, cold and new.
The centre of the village is positioned around an open patch of grass called Buscombe Green; large Georgian houses sit around the green like elders around a meeting table, wisteria buds creep around their doorways like waxy whiskers. I can imagine Charlotte walking out of one of these front doors. I drive all the way around the little rectangle, passing five or six shadowy little lanes that could lead to the cottage. My phone has no reception so I can’t load my maps; I have no idea where to go from here.
Not wanting to admit to myself I’m lost, I take one of the turnings off the green and am immediately faced by an old 4x4; I’m looking around over my shoulder, wondering how we can pass each other, when its lights flash and I can see that the larger car has already reversed, expertly tucking away into a passing point. I drive up slowly and wind my window down. It’s a woman, about my age, on her own in the car; there are empty booster seats in the back. She already has her window down so it’s easy for me to lean across and ask directions to Steeple Lane. I have to go back to the green, she says, and take the turning just by the pub. She asks where exactly I’m going, but I don’t want her to know, so tell her not to worry, I’ll know my way from there, and I thank her for her help. As I make a clumsy three-point turn, I wonder if this woman knew Cassie, if they were friends.