Four months later, you sold a short story and when the money came through, in true Gil style, you spent it on a holiday to Florence. An early birthday present or our second honeymoon, you said. I arranged for Megan, from the village, to take care of Nan while we were away. Megan was a year younger than me, happy to have some time off from the dairy, I thought. She picked Nan up with a confidence I still didn’t have, held our daughter on her hip in a way that made me feel as if I’d been faking motherhood for thirteen months.
She stood with Nan on the veranda as we got into the car, and she looked at me with pity, and naively I thought she must have heard about the miscarriage. She held Nan’s tiny wrist so that our daughter waved us good-bye as you reversed the car out of the drive. By the time we reached the main road, my eyes had filled with tears. You put your hand on my knee.
“It’ll be fine. Megan will look after her. What’s the worst . . .”
“. . . that could happen,” I finished for you, smiling feebly. But I didn’t admit, not even to myself, that the reason I was crying wasn’t because I was already missing Nan but at the relief of getting away from her.
Florence, 15th to the 19th of June, 1978. You had it all planned out. In the mornings we’d go for thick strong coffees at one of the little cafés on the Piazza della Repubblica and you’d order us two cornetto semplice. We’d stroll in the Boboli Gardens, and in the Accademia we’d stare up at Michelangelo’s David. After a long lunch we’d go back to bed for the afternoon. Later, you’d take me to La Specola and show me the three supine wax women that you fell in love with when you were fifteen, no matter that their insides are on display for everyone to see. You’d tell me how you visited them every day to escape the claustrophobia of your bullied mother and the wheezing pump of your father’s portable oxygen machine as the three of you did a latter-day version of the grand tour. We’d eat dinner at ten, finishing with chestnut ice cream and more coffee.
The sun was warm and Florence was beautiful, the hotel and the room perfect. We sat on the stone window seat and you kissed me with the sounds of the street coming in: car horns, raised Italian voices, and the click of women’s shoes on paving. You started to undress me, one button at a time, but I had to prise myself away and run to the bathroom so I could vomit into the toilet bowl. A queasy feeling had come over me as soon as we’d stepped onto the train at Pisa, but I’d ignored it.
“Can I do anything?” you said from outside the bathroom as I retched. You couldn’t hide the excitement in your voice.
I laid my forehead against the cold tiled wall and called out, “It must have been something I ate on the plane. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment.”
You didn’t come in. I heard you opening the suitcase clasps, then the drawers and the wardrobe, putting your notebooks and pens on your side of the bed, whistling through your teeth. The nausea rose again, my eyes watered, my forehead turned clammy, and I retched once more. I remembered to be thankful for the decent hotel and the clean bathroom with a toilet unsoiled by anyone other than me, even if we couldn’t afford these things and I’d be paying for them in reduced housekeeping money long after we returned to England.
After a while, when you heard me flush and run the tap, you came to crouch beside me where I sat on the floor. The tiles were embossed with a map of Italy, the sea around it an unreal blue, capped with white waves from which fishlike sea creatures jumped. “Do you think . . .” you said, a stupid smile across your face. “Is it possible, already?”
I flapped you out of the bathroom and was sick again.
“I’m sorry,” I said when I made it to the bed. “I’ve ruined our holiday.” You lay beside me, your head propped up on an arm, and stroked my hair.
“Poor Ingrid. There’s nothing to be sorry about. We can be happy again now.”
I was pleased for you. But I didn’t feel the same.
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone yet,” I said.
“I promise.” You kissed my forehead.
“There’s no point in both of us staying in. Not on our first evening. Let me sleep and in the morning we’ll go out together.”
You had the decency to be silent for a moment or two.
“Go,” I repeated.
“If you’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Find a nice restaurant and have some dinner.” I sat up against the pillows, drew in my legs, and wrapped my arms around my calves. A merman’s tail had been imprinted into the skin of my ankle where I’d kneeled on the bathroom floor.
“Can I get you anything?” you asked before you left.
In the way that sickness will pass quickly, when I’d rested for ten minutes I felt full of energy and not at all tired. I got up and sat again in the open window, my feet pressing against the frame, watching the mopeds in the street below bounce along the cobbles.