We sit in silence for a while. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid of what he might say. There was a time when we talked a lot, sharing our thoughts, but now Jack communicates more by his silences.
“I wish I could do something to help,” I say, reaching out and taking his hand. “And I know it’s no consolation, but I think you’re brilliant and they’re mad not to give you the hosting job.”
Jack turns over my hand and kisses the palm. “Do you ever worry about things?”
“Like what?”
“Money.”
“We’re not poor.”
“We’re going to need a bigger car and another bedroom.”
“This house is big enough.”
“What if three children are too many? What if we have no time for each other?”
This one catches me by surprise and my tongue suddenly feels too thick for my mouth.
“I don’t want to lose you ever,” he whispers.
“So don’t go anywhere,” I reply softly, hoping it sounds convincing.
He gives me a reproachful look. “I envy you.”
“Why?”
“You can make the best of any situation. You don’t get depressed. You don’t have doubts.”
“Everybody has doubts.”
“And you have this weird kind of honesty. You don’t hide things. You show everybody exactly who you are—and they love you back.”
I hear the catch in my voice as I change the subject. “Are you hungry?”
Jack shakes his head.
I stand and pull my dressing gown tighter around me. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t stay up too late.”
Sliding under the duvet, I close my eyes but cannot sleep. Lying awake, I try to understand Jack’s sadness. I know he’s crazy about Lucy and Lachlan and I still think he’s crazy about me, but we approach life differently. Jack anticipates problems in advance and prepares for the worst, marshaling the resources to handle things. I take problems as they come, bending rather than breaking.
If Jack reacts like this to losing a job opportunity, how would he handle knowing that I slept with Simon? He can never know. Never.
AGATHA
* * *
Hayden’s parents live in Colindale, North London, in one of those postwar cottages with a pebble-dashed fa?ade and a small front garden. Two stories. Bay window. Neat flower beds. The climbing roses are blooming late.
Mr. and Mrs. Cole know that I’m coming. I phoned ahead and Mr. Cole offered to pick me up from the station, but I said I could walk. I’m wearing one of my nicest dresses—a cute A-line from Mothercare with cap sleeves and a round neckline. It’s a little short and flouncy for meeting the parents, but I want them to see me as a future daughter-in-law, not someone auditioning for Amish life.
I find the house. Ring the bell. The door opens instantly. Mrs. Cole is beaming at me. She looks like a fifties austerity bride who sews and bakes and organizes street parties on royal occasions. Her husband is in the hallway behind her, his bald dome shining under a miniature chandelier. I didn’t picture Hayden losing his hair, which is a little worrying.
Mr. Cole works for the Royal Mail and has some fancy-sounding title but I think he sorts parcels or stamps letters. Hayden’s mum is a teacher at a deaf school and can do sign language. That’s because Hayden’s younger brother is deaf. He might also be dumb, although I don’t think people use that term anymore. Hayden’s older sister is married and living in Norfolk. I can’t remember if she has kids.
After the introductions, I’m shown into the room they call “the parlor,” where I perch on the edge of the sofa, knees together. Everything in the room seems to match, with the same floral pattern on the curtains, the cushions, and the wastepaper basket. Tea and cake are served. I’m starving, but I’m on crumb watch.
“Are you sure you won’t have a piece?” asks Mrs. Cole.
“No, thank you.”
They’ve both noticed that I’m pregnant, but I haven’t referenced the fact. Instead we talk about the weather and the train journey and how much we like lemon cake.
“I don’t know if Hayden has told you much about me,” I say when the conversation begins to falter.
“Very little,” replies Mrs. Cole, glancing at her husband.
“Well, he and I began a relationship when he was on shore leave in January. You might have wondered why he didn’t come home on many of those nights. He was staying at my place.”
They are still perched forward on their armchairs, not reacting.
What do I have to do—draw them a diagram?
I take a tissue from my coat pocket and blow my nose. “This is very difficult,” I say. “Normally I wouldn’t have bothered you, but Hayden has given me little choice. He won’t answer my emails. I talked to him a week ago and he . . . he . . .” I can’t get the words out.
Mrs. Cole puts her hand on my knee. “Are you having Hayden’s baby?”
I nod and cry even harder.
There is a beat of silence. Mr. Cole looks like he would rather be having a prostate exam than sitting in the parlor talking to me. I’m crying softly. I apologize and smear mascara across my cheeks.
Mrs. Cole sits next to me on the sofa and puts her arm around my shoulders.
“What did Hayden say?”
“He said he wants nothing to do with me, or the baby. He said I should have an abortion, but it’s too late and it’s against my religion. I have no one else to turn to. My real mum is dead.”
“Dead?”
“To me,” I blurt, catching my mistake. “She’s dead to me. We rarely speak.”
“You poor thing,” says Mrs. Cole. “More tissues, Gerald.”
He jumps to attention and turns in a complete circle before heading into the kitchen. Once the tissues are found I blow my nose again and wipe my eyes. Mrs. Cole has been asking the obvious questions about when the baby is due and whether I’ve visited a doctor. I show her the ultrasound pictures.
“Oh, look, Gerald. You can see everything. Fingers. Toes.”
“He’s very healthy,” I say.
“Are you having a boy?”
“Yes.”
Within twenty minutes we’re talking like a mother and daughter-in-law, discussing hospitals, morning sickness, and pain relief. Soon she’s bringing out the family photo albums and showing me pictures of Hayden as a baby.
“He was a big lump. Nine pounds,” she says. “I needed stitches.”
I flinch and she pats my knee. “Don’t you worry. You look like you’re built to have babies. I was a mere slip of a thing, wasn’t I, Gerald?”
Mr. Cole doesn’t answer.
She asks where I’m living and how I’m coping. I tell her about Jules and my lovely mothers’ group that meets every Friday morning for coffee opposite Barnes Green. Soon I’m looking at photographs of Hayden as a toddler and starting school and as a spotty teenager. I get the guided tour of his bedroom and a recap on how he won each of his sporting trophies.