James kisses me on the cheek. “Thought you’d be back ages ago.”
I can hear voices in the back room. James always takes visitors in there. He thinks it’s cosy. I think it smells of damp. Right now, James smells of paint stripper. “Have you been drinking?”
“Guilty as charged.” James opens the front door wider and reveals a bottle of beer. I notice that he doesn’t apologise for breaking our rule.
I put my rucksack down in the hall. The onesie is in there. It doesn’t feel like an appropriate gift now I’m home. “You’d better get one for me too.”
“Gotcha.”
I follow James into the kitchen and hiss: “Who’s here?”
“I threw an impromptu board game night. We’re being retro and playing Scrabble.” Normally, James plays geeky games like Lords of Waterdeep and Settlers of Catan. He hands me an open bottle: a wheat beer called White Noise. “How was Liverpool?”
“Work was fine.” The beer tastes strong. “How come you’re having a board game night tonight?”
“A few of us fancied it. Let’s go through.”
“But Scrabble?” I persist. “That’s not your thing, is it?”
“I picked something everyone would know.”
We head through to the back room and I exchange nods with Polly, Issam, and Kensa. There’s one new face.
“This is Eloise,” says James, taking a seat at the opposite end of the room from her. “She started renting a space at the studio last month.” Eloise is petite, with a pierced septum. She’s wearing a fifties-style rock ’n’ roll skirt.
“Hi,” she says, sipping from a can of premixed piña colada.
I sit on the carpet near James and watch him shuffle Scrabble tiles around on his rack. I can see a six-letter word (onward) that would bag him the triple word score, but he won’t let me help. It’s right there, I want to shout, right there in front of you. He plays the word down for eight points. Two turns later, Eloise gets the triple word score with offal. Forty-one points.
Later, when everyone has gone, I stand at the sink with my back to James. “She seems nice,” I say, as I wash glasses. “Have you known her long?”
James takes the bottles to the front door for recycling. “A few weeks,” he calls. “She was based at a studio in Newquay, but they closed down. I’ve been following her on Instagram for a while. She specialises in Polynesian blackwork. She’s good.” He comes back into the kitchen.
I empty a couple of bowls of leftover crisps into the sink.
“When’s your next dive? This bin bag is overflowing.”
“August.” I turn to face James, forcing a smile. “That gives us two more months before I go. Two attempts.”
“You’re in the mood?”
“Let’s go to bed,” I say, with conviction.
James stares at the crisps clogging up the plughole. I can see that he’s having to exercise great willpower to leave the sink as it is. “Right. Great. Let’s go.”
We shut Cola in the back room, which is something we’ve started to do when we have sex. The whining and snuffling is off-putting. It upsets Cola to hear James like that. That’s a joke that comes into my head as we walk upstairs.
James closes the bedroom curtains. I wish he wouldn’t do that. It really underlines the point that it’s just the two of us that have to make this thing happen. No distractions. No input. No help.
We kiss. There’s a smell that James has that I’m not keen on. I’ve tried to get him to wear aftershave, clean his teeth, eat more fruit, drink less coffee. None of it makes a difference. It’s his natural odour. Coffee and garlic. He says that I smell of rosemary and roast chicken. Apparently, that’s a turn-on.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, lifting my jumper over my head.
“This top suits you.” I take off his T-shirt.
“Wearing nothing suits you best.” James pauses. “What happened?”
I’d forgotten. The graze on my shoulder, where I scrubbed it in the shower. It’s round, planet-like, more revealing than a lipstick mark on a collar—it’s Mars, staring James in the face. “Scraped it on a piece of equipment,” I say, amazed at how easily the lie surfaces. “My own fault.”
James kisses the wound, and his hot, garlicky lips make it sting.
I think about Evie. I think about Eloise.
“Home sweet home,” I say, as James’s ribcage slams into mine.
24
“There’s such a thing as the psychogenesis of infertility,” the woman in my earphones tells me. I’ve swapped my science podcast for an infertility one. I know we’ve been trying to conceive for only half a year, and in the grand scheme of things that’s nothing—it’s normal—but I can’t bear seeing all these failed pregnancy tests. Now, from the moment I wake up to the moment my head hits the pillow, the voice drones on: You’re thirty-seven, Solvig. Past it. An infertile old mule. Time for the knackers.
I’ve given up on my twenty-mile runs because too much exercise might have an adverse effect on my fertility. So, I’m going for a long walk instead. Currently, I’m power-walking past the bakery. I can smell marzipan.
“The psychogenesis of infertility,” explains the woman on the podcast, whose name is Mellon, “is a theory developed in the 1950s, which says that a woman who feels ambivalent about having a baby can end up causing her own infertility. In my anecdotal experience, as a reproductive counsellor, I believe that the theory is true.”
I stride quickly along the high street, dodging the pushchairs. The key to a good power walk, so they say, is to incorporate gradients into your repertoire. If you’re hitting a plateau in your fitness levels, give yourself an uphill struggle.
“Be careful not to confuse ambivalence with indifference,” says Mellon. “Ambivalence refers to having split feelings about something. You might simultaneously be desperate for a baby, and at the same time, or in the very next moment, feel repelled by the thought of having one. I’ve worked with patients who have been trying to conceive for years, who have broken down in tears about how much they want to be mothers, but they can’t make peace with the idea of pregnancy. ‘If I could go off into the forest for nine months,’ one woman told me, ‘to deal with my changing body in private, then maybe I could do it.’ Many of my patients suffer from tokophobia, which is a pathological fear of pregnancy. It occurs even when women have no particular reason to harbour such a fear.”
The word “harbour” takes me out of the podcast, and I look down an alley between two shops on my left. The harbour looks so peaceful. I wonder what sort of stuff I’m harbouring—what fears, anxieties, prejudices. Surely harbouring your negative feelings is quite sensible?
I pick up my speed now, walking so fast that people keep looking behind me to see if I’m being chased, or ahead of me, to see who I’m chasing.
There are so many reasons not to procreate. The money, the carbon footprint, the physical toll, the emotional strain. It strikes me that I haven’t asked James whether he has any reservations about parenthood. I’m worried that if I open up to him, I’ll shatter like Anouk’s stone.
Last night, while we were having sex, I started reciting old adverts. Ones from when we were kids. “The red car and the blue car had a race . . . formulated and controlled by Laboratoires Garnier . . . turns the milk chocolatey.” I think James assumed I was enjoying myself.
I’m reaching Events Square now, where the Sea Shanty Festival is being set up. Bunting and beer stalls. There’s a group rehearsing in the square.
Goodbye, fare thee well,
We’re going away to leave you now,
Hoorah, me boys, we’re homeward bound.
I break into a jog. The jog turns into a sprint. I run all the way up to Pendennis Point; then I look down at the water. I’ve spent a lot of time looking down since my trip to Sherwood Forest. Every time I look up, I feel guilty. What was it Evie said? Every time they see the sky, I want them to think of me.
Four more weeks and I’ll be back in the diving chamber.
25
“Deano?”
My uterus is a salt marsh, a mudflat, a mangrove. It is teeming with grass shrimps and peanut worms. I feel grateful to be able to cultivate something so abundant and fruitful within my own body. I feel grateful to be able to cultivate something so abundant and fruitful within my own body. I feel grateful—
“Lad?”
I am to spend at least ten minutes a day praising my dank dwelling. I found the visualisation exercise on YouTube, and it appealed to me because I’ve been feeling so dried-up lately. The more I picture my uterus as a sopping wet swamp, the more right for James I feel.
“The others are calling you. Your John Skinner’s ready.” Dale’s voice, coming from the bunk beneath me, is not conducive to a meditative state.
“On my way,” I say, climbing down.
“Thought you were Bo-Peeping,” says Dale. He heaves himself up to sitting. “Right. Time for work.”
We’re two weeks into the dive. Rich is not with us, and there have been no panic attacks, no life-or-death scenarios. It’s been ten hours a day in the water, eight in the bunk, and the rest of the time for food, toilet, TV. Normally, I’d be getting lots of reading done, but I’ve only got Ruth Rendells and I’m not in the mood.
Kevin, Bailey, and I are on nights. Kevin is Rich’s replacement. I’ve worked with him a few times. He once ate a whole box of doughnuts—twelve Krispy Kremes—after a morning shift. He’s already halfway through his dinner when I get into the chamber.
“Took your time, lady,” says Bailey.
Bailey’s on the team instead of Cal, who’s apparently having a wart removed. I haven’t worked with Bailey before. Last night, when I came out of the loo, he asked if I’d finished “faffing around.” He laughed afterwards, as if laughter were a balm that turned an insult into a joke, but I didn’t laugh back.
Tai is on the dive too, working days with Eryk and Dale, but I’ve barely had the chance to talk to him. I’ve seen him on his bunk a couple of times, in between shifts. He’s not reading about how to chop wood any more. Now he’s reading a book called Wills, Probate & Inheritance Tax for Dummies.
It’s 6:00 a.m. and I’m about to settle down to a scallop supper. Fortunately, time doesn’t mean much in here. I think if I were outside, watching the sun rise, hearing the birds sing, I’d struggle to eat a hot dinner. In here, I can kid myself that it’s six in the evening.
I sit down too fast and bash my shin on the table leg.
“That’s gotta hurt,” says Bailey.
Earlier on, I banged my head while getting into the bunk. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Kevin hands me my food.
Bailey passes me the chilli sauce. “Madam.”
I stick the telly on. Today it’s an old episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I’ve seen this episode before. My mum used to like Star Trek, so my dad tells me, and knowing that has always drawn me to it. In general, despite loving space, I’m not a sci-fi buff. I’d rather watch an action movie. The night before I left for my dive, James and I spent a good half hour surfing Netflix, trying to find something we both fancied. He wanted to watch a TED Talk on vulnerability and I wanted Die Hard. We compromised with a travel programme.
In this episode of Star Trek, the android Data is in danger of being dismantled by a scientist who wants to see his inner workings. Captain Picard must defend Data in a Starfleet court, explaining that Data is neither a slave nor a possession. Intelligent life, artificial or otherwise, must be treated with respect. Our nuts and bolts don’t make us who we are—all they do is keep us from falling apart.
“She’s only bloody crying,” says Bailey, pointing at me.
“It’s great to experience human emotions, Bailey,” I say, sniffing. “You should try it sometime.”
If I ever do make it to Mars, I’ll need to be okay with confrontation. All sorts of issues are bound to arise. Hopefully, of course, the people who go will be polite and progressive. A microcosm of a perfect Martian society. It’s the kind of thing some folk might feel sexy about: a group of men and women, living in close quarters, tasked with creating a new civilisation together. In truth, despite having joked about it with Evie at Center Parcs, I find sex in space about as appealing as sex in a compression chamber. Or sex anywhere, come to think of it.
I found myself looking at an asexual website while lying in my bunk yesterday. “Asexual people simply don’t experience sexual attraction,” said the website. “It’s an orientation, not a choice.” Apparently, you can be asexual and still be in a happy relationship. You might even experience sexual arousal; you just don’t want to act on it. I wish that each time I used Google, I’d understand the universe a fraction better. Instead, it just raises new questions.
•
“Solvig,” a voice whispers. “Wake up.”
My eyelids flicker. “What time is it? I haven’t missed my shift, have I?”
Tai is standing beside my bunk. “It’s five. Can I have a quick word?”
I yawn. “Sure. What’s up?”
“Not here,” Tai says. “Don’t want to wake the others.”
I rub my eyes and climb down from my bunk. I’m wearing a tracksuit, but I still feel strangely exposed.
We head into the living chamber and sit at the table. Tai puts his palms down on the stainless steel. “My mum died,” he says, “three weeks ago. I went to her funeral a couple of days before we came into saturation.”
“Oh God, Tai. I’m so sorry. You could’ve asked for leave—”
“It’s better for me to be here, to keep me occupied.”
I consider telling him that my mum is dead too, but I’m not sure how it would help.
“I wanted to let you know. Since you were asking about her on the last dive.” He presses the tabletop so hard that his fingernails grow pale. “How’s the baby stuff going?”
“Oh, fine,” I say. “Just fine.”
Tai nods slowly. “I was on a woodcraft course when she took her final breaths. I should have stayed at home with her. I knew how bad she was.”
I pick at a loose thread on my tracksuit bottoms. “You mustn’t blame yourself, Tai.” I think about how often I’ve told myself that if I’d been a better-behaved baby, less hard work, perhaps my mum wouldn’t have needed to drink so much. I spent years torturing myself with the notion that I could have saved her.
“Life’s too short,” says Tai. “I feel like an idiot for going on about all that legacy stuff. All you have is now. You know?”
I look at the airlock behind Tai. Breakfast will be coming in shortly. The chefs are probably frying up my bacon rashers at this very moment.
“You’re right to focus on the present,” I say. “But you can keep the future on a back burner.” I decide against launching into a description of the four burners theory.
“Maybe,” replies Tai. “Maybe, maybe.”
“Actually,” I say. “Scrap that.”
“Eh?”
“Fuck the future. All you have is now. You’re right.”
“I need to sleep,” he says. “That’s what I need.”
26
“Where are you taking me?” asks Anouk, fiddling with the air-conditioning dial.
We’re in the middle of a heatwave. I roll down the window as we wait at a red light. “That doesn’t work any more,” I say. “Sorry. Old banger. As for where we’re going . . . you’ll see.”
Anouk switches on the radio. It’s a local radio station, Pirate FM, and it’s playing “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley. Anouk hasn’t asked how my dive went, even though I’ve been back for over a fortnight.
I made a decision while I was in saturation: I’m going to quit my job. I’ll replace it with something that enables me to stay close to home—and close to James—all the time. That way, we can focus on our relationship and on having a baby. We can concentrate on being in love without distractions. And then, if—if—I want to do something in the future, something that puts great
distance between us, like going to Mars, we’ll be strong enough to weather it, because I’ll have put in the hours here first.
I think Tai was right about focusing on the present. Without diving, I can be free to live the other parts of my life more fully. It’s simply a case of finding a new way to be whole. And not pining for what’s missing. I’m switching off some of my burners at last.
“James told me,” Anouk says abruptly, as the traffic light turns green. “He told me that you’re trying for a baby.”
I keep looking ahead. Cornish hedgerows become unruly in the summer. “James told you we’re trying?”
“He mentioned it when we went surfing.”
“I’m surprised he told you.”
“He has to talk to someone while you’re away for a month at a time.”
Since when did Anouk become bitter about my life choices? It’s not like she’s always taken the easy path or done what’s been expected of her. And it’s not like she’s keeping me informed on what’s going on in her life. I know from Facebook that Nike turned six last week, but she’s barely mentioned him. She didn’t invite me to the party either.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you, Anouk. It’s just that we see each other so rarely. It’s hard to get something like that into conversation.”
There is a silence between us, filled only by Rick Astley.
“I’m on my period,” I offer, when the song finishes.
The DJ starts talking about a syringe that’s been found on Fistral Beach. We listen without speaking, and we remain like this all the way through Tresillian, Probus, and St. Mewan. When we reach St. Austell, I clear my throat. “I’m taking us to the Eden Project.”
“You should’ve told me,” Anouk says. “I’ve got a locals’ pass. Could’ve brought it with me.”
“Never mind. I’ll buy you a ticket.”
“I went at the start of the holidays.”
“Well, hopefully it was good, because you’re here again.”
I park the car, and we head towards the site. I’m sweating horribly in this long-sleeved shirt. “So, do you know the story behind this place, then?”
“It used to be a clay pit,” Anouk tells me. “Some guys came up with the idea to turn it into a garden while they were in the pub. They designed it on a napkin.”
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