It’s easy to imagine these things because I have been inside the house. It was before Meg and Jack moved in, when the place was up for sale. House hunting is one of my hobbies and I arranged a viewing. The estate agent, a bottle blonde with a figure-hugging wardrobe, showed me round, pointing out the important features, calling it “characterful” and “priced to sell.”
I could see how she operated, flirting with the husbands and charming the wives, but never within earshot of each other. She acted like a co-conspirator, convincing each spouse that she would help sway his or her partner. She tried the same thing with me, asking questions about my husband and whether he’d be coming along. I pretended to be talking to him on the phone.
“Yes, I think it’s big enough, but I’m a little worried about the train noise . . . You’ll hear them in the summer with the windows open.”
Walking from room to room, I examined the oven and the self-closing drawers and ran my finger over the stainless steel appliances and marble worktops. I tested the water pressure and flicked the gas rings on and off. The estate agent took my name and details—not the real ones, of course. I have lots of favorite names—Jessica or Sienna or Keira.
I didn’t realize that Meg and Jack had bought the house until I followed Meg home that first time. Now I can picture them in every room—Lucy in the back bedroom, Lachlan in the middle one, and the nursery immediately above the stairs.
I have left it too late and it’s grown too dark to see the path. Feeling my way forward, I stumble over roots and feel brambles tugging at my clothes. The railway tracks shine silver in the ambient light and I move tentatively over the broken rocks and cross ties. The crickets fall silent and the rails begin to hum: a train coming. Stumbling to one side, I turn to be blinded by a bright light. The engine blasts past me in a roar of noise and rushing air that shakes the ground and sends dead leaves dancing around my legs.
I hold my belly, protecting my baby, telling him I’ll keep him safe.
MEGHAN
* * *
Maybe I’m not cut out for motherhood. In the first trimester I worried about miscarriage. Later I fretted about premature labor, birth complications, medical negligence, and myriad other disasters. After he’s born I’ll be anxious about SIDS, influenza, infections, meningitis, bumps, bruises, rashes, and high temperatures. Every cough, sniffle, or sneeze will have me on edge. When he learns to walk and run and climb, I will worry about falls, broken bones, open drawers, hot plates, and domestic poisons. This will never change, regardless of his age. When he’s eighteen I’ll worry about drunk drivers, drug dealers, bullies, unemployment, student debt, and girls that break his heart.
I write about these doubts and insecurities in my blog and readers think I’m joking. They expect me to be an expert, having practiced on Lucy and Lachlan, but I simply find new mistakes to make and new fears to keep me awake at night.
I had a scan today. An ultrasound technician smeared gel over my belly and gave me a running commentary, pointing out all the bits. My little passenger has two arms, two legs, and the requisite number of chambers in his heart, which is beating like the wings of a hummingbird.
My doctor says everything is fine—my blood pressure, my urine, my iron levels, etc. I’ve put on thirty-eight pounds and that’s OK too, although I feel clumsy and uncoordinated because I keep bumping into things. My belly is like an airbag.
Home again, I’m looking at the unfinished nursery. The curtains must be measured and ordered, and Lachlan’s old baby clothes are in boxes in the attic. I started with great plans for a perfect little boy’s room, but nothing has turned out like I imagined. The truth is I don’t care, as long as he’s healthy and happy and treats me nicely.
As if reading my mind, he chooses that moment to kick me hard in the kidneys.
“Hey! What was that for?”
He kicks me again.
“Do that again and you’re never borrowing the car.”
I picture him sometimes—my unborn son—as the world’s smallest assassin, a fetal torturer who is punishing me for what I did to Jack. Every kick and elbow and head-butt is retribution, and every scan a reminder of my eternal shame. The other memory aid plays tennis with my husband every week. His name is Simon Kidd and he and Jack are best friends.
They met at Exeter University and were thick as thieves, sharing a house, going to the same parties, and playing wingman when they were “on the pull,” which they reminisce about constantly. Lucy once asked them what they were “pulling” and I waggled my little finger at Jack.
I’ve always thought them an odd pair of friends. Simon was the sort of undergraduate who couldn’t leave a drug or a girl untried, while Jack was far more studious, dependable, and health conscious.
Although Jack doesn’t know it (and never will), I had a brief fling with Simon years before I met and married Jack. I was working for a magazine and Simon was trying to get funding for a film project. He invited me to lunch, hoping I’d write a story, and we were in bed within two hours. Simon had a house share in Brook Green, which was full of secondhand film equipment and second-rate flunkies. I broke it off after four months because I couldn’t handle the sweat-soaked sheets and his itinerant druggie friends.
By then I was well aware of Simon’s effect on women, how they hung on his every word or went giggly if he smiled at them. Is he handsome? Yes, but not ruggedly so. He’s almost too pretty with his high cheekbones and piercing gray eyes. I have learned how to look at him and be unaffected, which is a bit like viewing a partial eclipse of the sun—never straight on or you risk going blind.
Even after we stopped seeing each other, I would run into Simon occasionally at film premieres and short-film festivals. He was always very flirty and attentive, asking if I was seeing anyone. Later he moved to America, and then Hong Kong. We lost touch.
When I met Jack he sometimes mentioned a friend called Simon, but I didn’t put two and two together because they had nicknames for each other. It wasn’t until our wedding eve that I realized. Jack had arranged to pick Simon up from Heathrow and I did a double take when I saw him. Caught by surprise, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision not to say anything to Jack, and Simon played along. It seems silly now, but I was getting married the next day and I knew how jealous and competitive Jack can be. I didn’t want to spend my last night being quizzed about old boyfriends and what we did together.
Later, in the kitchen of Jack’s flat, I whispered to Simon, “You remember me?”
“Of course.”
“I thought maybe you were so . . .”
“Out of it?”
“Yes.”
“I stopped all that. It’s strange, being lucid all the time. Boring, but I’ll live longer.”