“Solvig, mind if I sit with you?”
It’s Evie. Have I conjured her here by thinking about pregnancy? I shake my head. “Please.”
She sits, catching her breath, and puts a blue Slush Puppie on the table. “How did your afternoon session go?”
“It was hard work,” I say. “Demonstrating what a capable team worker I am. How fanatical I am about Mars. What an accomplished astronaut I’d make. While at the same time showing off my smashing sense of humour.”
Evie laughs. “It was a bit like that, wasn’t it?” She slips off a shoe and rubs her foot. “There was one young man in my group who I think would have gladly chucked everyone out of the rocket and flown to Mars all by himself.”
I roll my eyes.
“Women,” Evie says, chuckling, “they might be from Venus, but they belong on Mars.” I can’t help but notice that Evie looks at me when she says “women.” For some reason, it feels good to be categorised.
“But how would we populate Mars?” I ask mischievously.
Evie fixes me with a puzzled expression, then imbibes Slush Puppie through a red straw.
“There’ll be no populating up there, I’m afraid,” she says. “I mean, technically, it’s possible. The African clawed frog was proven to ovulate on the space shuttle Endeavour. And the pregnant rat that the Soviets took up gave birth afterwards. Offspring were a tad weak to begin with, but they soon caught up.”
It’s weird to hear a pregnant woman talking like this, in such clinical terms. I wonder if Evie ever thinks of the baby she is carrying as her “offspring.”
“The biggest challenge is radiation,” she continues. “If there’s enough of a shield in the living quarters, that may prevent damage to developing foetuses. But as of yet, we haven’t witnessed human gestation in space, let alone on a new planet, so . . . we’ll see.”
“You know a lot about this,” I say.
“If you’ve got the urge to bear children, Solvig, my advice is that you deal with that urge now.”
I hide behind my pint glass.
Evie runs her fingers over her stomach, causing the floral print to stretch, taut, over her bump. She leans forward conspiratorially. “When did you first know? You know, that you wanted to go?”
“Probably not long after my mum died,” I reply, my demeanour not as cool as I’d like.
“Oh, Solvig.”
“I used to sit on the edge of my bed, aged three or four, looking out of my window.” I mime this action by looking up at the dome above us. “I was so sure she was up there. In the sky.”
“That’s beautiful.” It looks like Evie might be about to cry. “It’s how I want my children to feel. If I go. I want them to think of me every time they look up. The sky is everywhere, so I’ll always be with them.”
It surprises me that Evie is already a parent. I have so many questions. How many children do you have? Do you feel guilty at the thought of leaving them behind? Did you always know, for sure, that you wanted them in the first place? Do you ever feel like a bad person? Instead, all I can muster is: “Evie, do you want another drink?”
Evie studies her Slush Puppie and sticks out her tongue. It’s ultramarine. She laughs. “My eldest boy’s favourite,” she said. “He might be able to have two in a row, but I can’t even finish one.”
“He must be very proud of you,” I say quietly.
Evie pushes the cup away. “He hasn’t handled this too well, to be honest. Ever since I entered the competition, he’s spent every evening up in his room, playing Minecraft. He’s building a to-scale model of the Eiffel Tower. Made of ice.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The twins are a couple of years younger than Leo. They’re thrilled. They think I’m Flash Gordon. ‘Mummy’s going to live in space!’ I think their concept of forever only runs to next week.”
“So many kids.”
“Yes,” laughs Evie. “So many kids.”
“And what about your husband?” I ask. “You did say you were married, didn’t you?”
Evie’s expression softens. “Cedric was the one who suggested I do this.”
“Really?”
“He heard a segment on the Today programme and emailed me a link to the Mars Project website straight afterwards. He knows how much this opportunity means to me. I imagine he was hoping I’d laugh it off. But it’s just a case of making it work long-distance, isn’t it?”
I look deep into my empty pint glass. “Making it work. Yeah.”
“I’m sure now he’s got used to the idea he’s proud . . . thrilled . . . happy.”
I can’t resist smiling. Evie is referencing Rene Carpenter, the American astronaut Scott Carpenter’s first wife. In interviews, she was repeatedly asked how she felt about her husband being “blasted into space,” and those three words became her stock reply. Who knows what really lurked behind those adjectives?
Evie reaches for my hand and strokes my knuckles. “It’s been so good to meet you today, Solvig.” She pauses. “I haven’t been on an adventure like this for so long.”
I give her hand a soft squeeze. “It’s been like that for me too. An adventure.”
“Look,” says Evie, wiping her eyes. “Why don’t we get out of here? This isn’t the celebratory atmosphere I was hoping for. We might be living on another planet soon, for heaven’s sake! Let’s not waste our time sitting beside a pool we’re not even swimming in.”
“Where do you suggest we go?”
“Back to my chalet,” Evie says, and there’s something about her expression that I like very much.
22
“Sorry I don’t have any alcohol,” says Evie, reaching into a shiny white cupboard. “I’ve got some rather potent sleepy tea if that does it for you?”
I inwardly lament not picking something up on the way. “Sleepy tea sounds fine.”
Evie sorts the drinks and I sit down. Although her lodge is in a different area of the park—an area called Birch, not Willow—it’s exactly the same as mine, right down to the black-and-white woodland scene on the wall. Because the layout is so familiar, I feel strangely at home. I put my feet up on the coffee table and sit back, closing my eyes.
“I can’t wait to push this little blighter out and have a glass of champagne,” Evie calls, above the noise of the kettle. “And a big platter of soft cheese. Six pregnancies later, that’s far too many years of my life without brie.”
“Why can’t you eat brie?”
“Oh, some people do,” Evie says, putting two identical black mugs on the table and rubbing her lower back before she sits. “Risk of listeria is low, but it’s there. Same with deli meats and smoked salmon. I’m probably a worrywart, but after two losses, I’d rather not take the gamble.”
Losses? Is Evie talking about miscarriages? It’s so odd to hear them described like that. People lose their keys. Their glasses. Their wallet. I should express sympathy, but I don’t know how. Sorry for your losses. That can’t be right.
“Anyway,” says Evie, putting her feet up next to mine. “I want to know more about you. Tell me everything.”
“Everything? Well, I’m a diver. You know that.”
“And your husband?”
“Oh, we’re not married.” My eternity ring catches my eye. I turn the half of the ring that’s studded with diamonds face down, so that the gems are in my palm.
“And how does he feel about this?” She motions around the room. Presumably she’s talking about more than Center Parcs; she’s talking about the entire cosmos.
“He’s okay,” I reply, lightly touching the tip of my nose. Then I let my hands rest in my lap. “Evie,” I mumble. “I haven’t told him.”
Evie grips my arm. “That’s understandable, you know. It’s a big thing. A humongous thing. It takes a certain type of partner to be able to get something like that.”
“And your partner?” I ask. “You said he was the one who told you about the competition. Does he get it?”
“Cedric . . .�
� She picks up her mug from the coffee table, drumming her fingers on the ceramic. Her wedding ring clinks against it. “Cedric is a rare bird. He wasn’t my professor at university, but he was working there while I was a student. There’s a twenty-year age gap. I think that’s helped us maintain a certain distance.” She pauses. “This is going to sound like such a Cedric thing to say, but the word distance has such negative connotations. Why should it, though? It’s merely the gap between two points.”
I find myself looking into her mug, at the dark liquid contained within.
“Cedric and I have always enjoyed our own space. We’ve worked hard to maintain it. I mean, we’re very close in some ways. We have three kids, and a fourth on the way. It’d be impossible to keep each other at arm’s length all the time. We wouldn’t want that. The emotional proximity is there, and often the physical too. But we’re still open, still free.” She turns to me. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I blink. “I think so.”
“We’re complicated creatures, Solvig,” says Evie. “We need to be free to figure ourselves out.”
“Have you?” I ask, drinking a mouthful of tea. Tastes of marshmallow and violets. “Figured yourself out?”
“Well, now there’s the question.” Evie smiles. Two dimples appear on her chin. “It’s an ongoing project,” she says. “Applying to go to Mars is part of that project. And so is sitting here now, being with you.”
That phrase: “being with you.” She could have said “talking to you,” but she’s acknowledging that we’re in the same place. No distance.
“I like the sound of your life,” I tell Evie.
“Yours sounds exciting,” Evie responds. “Going off on your dives, getting away from it all.”
I bite my lip. “Do you ever regret having children?”
Evie looks down. “It’s draining playing host to someone else the whole time. Giving my babies everything I’ve got: my heart, my soul, my nutrients. What I wouldn’t give for a day in your body, Solvig. A body that’s only ever belonged to you. Full of edges and borders and definites. Those definites left my body a long time ago.”
“But . . . you’ve chosen to have a large family?”
“Oh yes, I love being around young people. They fill me with hope for the future. But I do miss those sexy definites.”
I put my mug down on the table a little too heavily, then jump up from the sofa. I should go. “Um,” I say.
“Solvig, are you okay?” Evie stands too.
“Um,” I say again.
“What is it, Solvig?”
Timidly, I ask: “Can I touch your bump?”
Evie takes a step forward. “Of course you can.”
It takes a long time for my fingers to make contact, but eventually, I place my hands flat against Evie’s belly, as if warming my palms before a fire. I’m shocked by how muscular it feels. “Wow,” I whisper. “You made that.”
Evie breathes deeply and nods. Then, she lifts the hem of her dress, revealing her thighs, her moss-green knickers, and the pale, stretched moon of her abdomen to me. Her belly button sticks out slightly, straining against the force of what’s behind it.
“You’re so tall, Solvig,” Evie marvels. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are blazing. “You can keep touching if you like.”
I look at the backs of my hands as if they were someone else’s. This time, less gingerly than before, I reach out. I feel the shiny slivers of stretch marks. The way her bump feels a little harder on one side than the other.
Evie takes off her dress. Because Evie is so relaxed, she’s making this seem normal. Perhaps this is normal.
“Is that a maternity bra?” I ask, running my fingers along the fuchsia straps.
“That’s right,” she says. “It’s a nursing bra too.” She unhooks the right cup from the strap, and her breast topples out. Everything about this woman seems so full. It makes me wonder if I’m empty in comparison.
“Come on,” she says, laughing, so at home in her body. She takes me by the hand and leads me to her bedroom. It’s maroon, like mine. The difference is that she made her bed this morning and I didn’t, and where there’s an empty bottle of wine on my bedside table, on hers there’s a book entitled Architecture for Astronauts: An Activity-Based Approach.
Evie gives me a moment to study her back—pale and strong, flecked with freckles—as she walks to the far side of the bed. Then she lies down, facing me. She sticks out her tongue. Still blue.
I look down at my loose shirt and trousers and think how thin and frail my naked body would look beside Evie’s. I’ve been with James for so long. Our ribcages slam together when we have sex. Neither of us strives for such a skinny physique. Some people would call that lucky, but I’ve often wished I had fuller hips, rounder thighs. Equally, though, I’ve fantasised about how it might feel to rid myself of all the extraneous curves and bumps, to be as smooth and uncluttered as a Ken doll: no nipples, no genitalia, no fuss.
I undo my shirt buttons, revealing my sports bra. Letting James into my thoughts has made me feel weird. It’s as though I’ve conjured him into the room. He’s standing in the corner by the wardrobe, with a scornful, sad expression.
I take off my clothes as a dare to myself.
Wearing just my plain white underwear, I lie on the bed facing Evie. There’s an ocean of duvet between us.
“Are you okay, Solvig?” she asks. “Is this okay?”
I wish I’d had more cider. Maybe I should take off my sports bra to prove how fine I am. Evie’s breast is staring competitively at me. Go on, it’s saying, through that big, dark mouth at its centre. Show us what you’ve got.
“I’d kill for your body, Solvig,” says Evie, staring at my flat stomach and my protruding hip bones. “Would you mind if I touched you now?”
I shake my head and wait stoically for Evie’s fingers. I focus my attention on her bump, flopped to one side because of how she’s lying. I can see her heart beating in her belly, and I can see a lump too, maybe the baby’s head. The lump starts to squirm.
Evie’s acting like it isn’t happening. Her fingertips rest on my cold skin, and I gasp.
“Solvig, why are you crying?” Evie wriggles forwards on the bed and envelops me in an embrace. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she says. “Shh. It’ll be all right.”
My body convulses as I sob. “I’m sorry . . . I thought I wanted . . . I’ve been looking for . . .”
“I know,” says Evie, her breast squashing into mine. “I know, pumpkin.”
23
I stretch out, starfish-like, and look at the ceiling. I see bits of myself reflected in the chrome lampshade. There I am: a woman in her midthirties, who has a partner and plans for a family. A woman who nearly cheated last night. I suppose I did cheat, but if I didn’t sleep with Evie, and I didn’t kiss her, and I didn’t touch her anywhere but her stomach, would it do any good for James to know?
I sent James an apology text this morning. Sorry I didn’t call last night. Look forward to seeing you later. Felt good to say “sorry,” even if it wasn’t for the thing I feel guilty about.
I also watched a YouTube video of someone crying in space. It was Chris Hadfield, former commander of the International Space Station. And he wasn’t really crying. He was squirting water in his eye, to show the difference between crying on Earth and at zero gravity. A globule of clear jelly formed over his eye and then slowly spread across his face. After the demonstration, Hadfield said to the camera: “The big difference is, tears don’t fall.”
In the shower, I scrub my skin so hard with the loofah that it turns pink. I scrub away Evie, Center Parcs, the Mars Project. I keep scrubbing until it’s just me, James, and our future baby. It hurts.
•
I’m only twenty minutes from home when I stop in a car park and rest my head on the steering wheel. I don’t know how long I sit for. Time is wrapped around me like a duvet: soothing, suffocating.
When I lift my head off the wheel, I hal
f expect to have a ticket, but there’s nothing. I pay for an hour’s parking and head for the centre. I walk past Lemon Quay, towards the shops on Boscawen Street. I go past tourist shops, chain stores, and boutiques, glancing in windows and dismissing everything.
Then, a white shopfront catches my eye: Mothercare. I’m meant to be looking for something for James, something that will make me feel better, but I find myself going in.
There’s music playing on the speakers. A Disney tune? Something about how feeling the wind on your face can lift your heart. I run my fingers over a terry-cloth romper suit with a duckling on the front. I scrunch up a mint-green velour pinafore dress. I clutch teeny socks and mittens. I shake rattles and caress blankets.
The newborn onesies are all labelled as unisex, but there’s clearly one side with a lot of pink flowers and princesses on it, and another that’s full of blue tractors and dinosaurs. I like to think, as many have thought before me, that I won’t gender-stereotype my daughter. Incidentally, a girl is what I feel instinctively that she’s going to be. Maybe it’s because I once read that divers have more female than male children. It’s something to do with sperm fragility, not that this would affect me, I suppose.
I’m going to get all sorts for my daughter. Like this onesie, for instance. It’s on the blue side, and it’s got an orange octopus embroidered onto it. My little girl, enveloped in the manyarmed embrace of a cephalopod. Symbolic, perhaps, of all the different people that are going to love her, to fold her in their arms and protect her.
“Can I help you at all?” asks a saleswoman.
“I’m having a baby,” I say.
“Congratulations! When’s he due?”
“It’s a she. We’re not sure of the exact date yet.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything.” She wanders off towards the prams at the back.
I hold the outfit close. This is it. The thing I am going to buy. The thing that will make me feel better.
•
Bright and Dangerous Objects Page 10