The Closer You Get

by Mary Torjussen

  I looked away, ashamed suddenly that I was still married to Tom. “Don’t let’s think about him now. I want it just to be us this weekend.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Our hotel was small, with only twenty rooms, and in the Pigalle area in northern Paris, where old-style cabarets mixed with hip new bars and restaurants. The Moulin Rouge was right at the end of the street. The other staff from work who would be at the conference were staying in a different hotel near the Champs-Élysées; there was a casino nearby that they wanted to go to. They’d shown no interest in where we were staying, except to check with me that we weren’t staying at their hotel. This was a weekend away for them and they didn’t want their boss hanging around with them at night.

  “This is so beautiful,” I said when we entered the lobby. “The last time I was in Pigalle was when I was eighteen and backpacking. We stayed in dormitories and had to bring our own sleeping bags.”

  This hotel was as different from that as it could be, with its Moorish tiles and crimson velvet chairs and nineteenth-century oil paintings adorning the walls.

  He laughed. “I knew you’d like it.” He held me to him and I felt his breath against my cheek, making me shiver with anticipation. “I chose it especially for you.”

  We had separate rooms, as the booking was made through work, but we had no intention of using one of them. As soon as we were alone he was kissing me, up against the door, as though we’d just met.

  When we finally made it back to the bar, I watched him as he spoke to the waiter in French, talking about the wine list. He seemed nervous, on edge, and I panicked in case he was regretting things, but then he turned to me and smiled and said, “I got myself tied up in knots there. I have no idea what I’ve just ordered,” and I relaxed.

  We were discussing where to go for dinner when it started to rain and we decided to stay put and order food there. The barman explained they didn’t serve dinner, just bar snacks, then brought us an array of delicious tapas: little cubes of Emmentaler cheese sprinkled with celery salt, polenta cakes garnished with cherry tomatoes and pomegranate seeds, and bruschetta with black olives and roasted red peppers. I was nervous about that; I always found it difficult to eat in front of other people after Tom made a sarcastic comment about the way I ate when we were first together, so I made sure I was really careful. We sat in the window of the hotel with our wine and tapas, looking out at the bustling street and talking about our memories of how we first met. It was one of those moments in my life that was just perfect. And yes, I had to go up to my room half an hour before Harry did, so that I could call Tom and tell him I was okay. He didn’t answer, of course. He didn’t answer his phone all weekend and I knew he was annoyed with me for going. I was annoyed, too, as I knew if I hadn’t answered my phone when he called he’d have been furious, but when I got home he actually apologized and told me he’d been out with work friends and hadn’t heard it ring. It was such an unexpected reprieve, I felt light with relief.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was on Saturday night that Harry first suggested we should live together.

  We’d had to go to the conference that morning so that he could do his presentation. As usual, everyone was wowed by him. I felt so proud of him as he talked, engaging everyone, making them laugh. He had so many people come up to him afterward, pressing business cards into his hand, asking to set up meetings with him. The day was a success and he was on a high as a result.

  But the reason he’d done so well, he told me, was because of me. I still feel a full-body blush at the thought of the night before. It was the first time we’d had so much time together. Complete privacy. He was so gentle, so lovely. The way he held me, kissed me: I knew that he had feelings for me, that it wasn’t just sex. After he slept I lay snuggled up alongside him and felt so sad and low at the thought of going back to Tom, of seeing Harry go home to Emma. I knew that I wanted to leave Tom. I think I’d known for years, but I hadn’t felt able to, had thought I wouldn’t cope alone.

  On Saturday night we walked for miles through the streets of Paris. I don’t know whether we thought nobody would recognize us or whether we just didn’t care by then, but we were holding hands and it would’ve been clear to anyone that we were a couple. When we arrived back at our hotel, Harry pulled me to him just before we reached the door.

  “Ruby, I’ve got something to say to you.” He kissed me. “I love you.”

  Just as it had a hundred times since I met him, my stomach flipped. “I know,” I said. “You’ve told me that before.”

  He laughed. “I tell you every day.”

  He was right. He did.

  “But it’s different now. This isn’t enough for me, just seeing you at work and whenever Tom goes away. I want us to be together.” He looked so serious. “What do you think?”

  I felt as though I was taking a huge leap into a void. I took a deep breath. “I want to be with you, too.”

  “Let’s do it,” he said. “Let’s make it happen.”

  And that was the night we planned it, that in a month, on the day that Emma’s sister, Jane, was leaving work, Harry and I would go to our homes and I’d tell my husband and he’d tell his wife that we were leaving home.

  CHAPTER 29

  Emma

  Of course, what I hadn’t taken into account was that I’d become pregnant.

  Harry and I had been together for twenty years, since we met at university. Back in those days I had contraception nailed down tightly. The very last thing I’d wanted was to have a baby. I wanted to work, to have the freedom to travel and see friends. A baby would only get in the way of that and luckily Harry felt exactly the same. Once we hit our midtwenties and our friends started to have children, we decided to have one ourselves. We thought it would be the easiest thing in the world.

  It was such a shock to discover it wasn’t. After a couple of years we had fertility tests—those were a joy, I can tell you—and we were both found to be fertile. The doctors called it unexplained infertility; everything was in working order but I just wasn’t getting pregnant. We had three attempts at IVF, but nothing happened except bitter disappointment. I think it affected Harry more than me, really. In the early days, whenever those feelings of utter, utter broodiness hit him, he’d get up and do something. He’d run miles in the middle of the night and work fourteen-hour days so that he wouldn’t have time to think about it. That’s when his business really took off. All of his efforts went into it.

  I was working hard, too. I’d trained in web design and after a few years of working in larger companies, my university friend Annie and I decided to go it alone and we formed a small business together. We hired an office in a Victorian school that was converted into small offices and studios. We could have worked from home, but neither of us was good at solitude and having somewhere to go each day helped keep us motivated.

  When I was absorbed in my work, I didn’t think about getting pregnant. I just took the view that if it happened, it would, but then it didn’t and after a while, I forgot all about it. For the last few years I hadn’t thought about contraception. It had been well over ten years since we’d decided to try for a baby and by now I hadn’t thought there was a chance of pregnancy.

  So when I slept with Tom, it really hadn’t occurred to me there might be consequences. Not of that kind, anyway. It had literally never crossed my mind, not beforehand or during or afterward. Not one thought.

  I don’t know whether it was subliminal or what. Had I had that fling with him knowing I might get pregnant? I was thirty-eight: Was my body thinking I had one last chance? I hated to think I’d do that to any man, to use them to have a baby. I was ashamed I’d done it to another woman. Bad enough to sleep with her husband, but to not protect her—her above everyone—against my getting pregnant? I had never imagined that my overwhelming feeling at finding out I was expecting a bab
y would be shame.

  * * *

  • • •

  I found out on a Friday, a month after I’d been to Tom’s house. Those weeks had been strange at home. It was as though the temperature had changed between Harry and me. I couldn’t relax. I kept myself busy at work, arriving early and coming home late. Annie would leave work first and I’d tell her I’d leave soon, but then I’d go to the kitchen and make coffee and hang out there to see who would join me. A lot of the people who worked in our building were young and single; they’d often go out for a drink after working until eight or nine o’clock. I joined a gym, too, and told Harry I wanted to get fit. Like Ruby, I wanted to yell.

  I didn’t confront him about Ruby. I knew I would have to, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I felt embarrassed. Humiliated. And I couldn’t work out how I could tell him I knew without him finding out I’d slept with Tom. I was on tenterhooks all that time. I didn’t know whether Tom would confront Ruby. If he did, he’d have to tell her how he knew. And she would tell Harry and it would all come out. I wanted to keep the moral high ground as far as fidelity was concerned. Though my nerves were on edge I tried to act the same as usual, but Harry seemed preoccupied with work and I didn’t think he’d even noticed the difference in me.

  The odd thing was that almost every night since I’d seen him with Ruby, we’d find ourselves in each other’s arms, making love as we did in the early days, passionate and uninhibited. It wasn’t as though we intended that to happen. It was only when we were in the dark that we’d turn to each other. We didn’t say a word, either at the time or later. There was no eye contact, no whispers or shared laughter. I didn’t know whether we were trying to make up to each other for what we’d done or whether we were seeking comfort and reassurance. In the mornings, though, I’d feel confused and hurt. I couldn’t meet his eyes, not even to see whether he could meet mine.

  * * *

  • • •

  That morning I woke later than usual and felt as though I hadn’t slept a wink, though I had no memory of being awake in the night. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, then turned to see Harry was still in bed. He was always the one who woke first, the one who was up as soon as the alarm sounded. Usually he’d fix coffee before my eyes were even open. He’d put a mug on my bedside table and waken me with a quick kiss before jumping into the shower. Mornings were his best time and I’d seen it as a great quality, but now I wondered whether he was just eager to go in to work to see Ruby. He was lying on his side, staring at the beam of sunlight that was reflected on the wooden floor. He looked absolutely lost. My stomach tightened. I couldn’t live like this.

  “You’re running late,” I said. “I’ll make coffee while you have a shower.”

  “That’s okay.” He jumped out of bed. “I’ll get some at the office.”

  When I heard the shower stop, I went down to the kitchen and poured a couple of glasses of orange juice and put bread into the toaster.

  Harry came down and drank the juice quickly. “I’d better go. Lots on today.”

  There was no mention of the passion we’d shared the night before. No shared secret smiles or tender touches. As he raced around finding his briefcase and keys, avoiding my eyes, I knew I would have to do something. Annie and I had a solicitor we used when we set up our business. I thought I’d phone her this morning and see if she could recommend someone who could advise me if I decided to leave him.

  I’d made toast and though I no longer wanted it now, I took a bite. As soon as the warm, buttered toast was in my mouth, I gagged.

  I only just reached the bathroom in time and spat it out. Ugh, it had tasted so weird. Disgusting. I checked the bread and the butter. Both were fine. I drank a glass of water, but could still taste it. It tasted like iron filings. How did I even know what that would taste like?

  And then it dawned on me.

  Oh no.

  I looked at the calendar on the fridge. I knew I’d had my period fairly recently; I’d been to my mum’s house, I remembered, and given her a piece of my mind when she gave the last slice of lemon cake to Harry. I’d had to call her the next day to apologize, blaming my hormones. I checked the dates and groaned.

  I couldn’t be. I couldn’t be.

  Within half an hour I was at the local supermarket, looking at pregnancy tests. I was so familiar with these tests; I’d used them all over the years but for the last few years I hadn’t bothered. I’d never got up my hopes, never bought one on the off-chance it would spark a positive result. I’d learned the hard way not to let myself do that.

  That day I bought four different tests, then went back for a fifth. I wasn’t leaving anything to chance. I went through the self-service checkout and flashed them through, holding them carefully, as though they were unexploded bombs.

  Of course, they were positive. All of them were.

  My first thought was of Harry. Be careful what you wish for, they say.

  No kidding.

  CHAPTER 30

  Emma

  When I sat down with my diary and worked out the dates, things were even worse than I’d thought. Harry and I had slept together twice in the week before he went to Paris and then almost every day since he came back. I can’t even tell you how many times Tom and I had had sex. I haven’t been able to bring myself to think about it. There were none of those happy stomach flutters that I used to have after I first got together with Harry. None of those sudden feelings of doubling over with lust. Just a cold dread every time I thought of what I’d done.

  And yet I’d still never thought of pregnancy. My mind had been full of shame and betrayal; I’d thought that was the repercussion of sleeping with Tom. And now, looking at the tests, all brightly showing a distinct line or saying Positive or Pregnant, I didn’t know whether to give in to the absolute and utter joy of it or to end it immediately. But I knew that was not an option. No matter what happened, I wouldn’t do that.

  After I’d hidden the tests at the back of my office drawer, I decided to work from home that day. Annie was out of the office visiting a new client for an initial consultation and though I longed to talk to her, I knew I shouldn’t. Her husband, Patrick, was great friends with Harry and it just wasn’t fair to bring them into this. Though I’d planned to do some work, I couldn’t focus and called my sister. Jane was the one I’d always turn to when I was stuck. Right from childhood we’d covered each other’s backs, in every possible way. I wanted to confide in her, to ask her what I should do.

  I rang her mobile several times that morning, but she didn’t answer, so I sent her a message:

  Jane, I need to talk to you. Call when you can x

  A few minutes later she replied:

  It’s my last day at Sheridan’s. I won’t get the chance to talk until later. Are you OK? x

  I sighed. I’d forgotten that she was leaving work that day. I didn’t want to talk to her and be cut off in the middle, so I replied:

  Yes, can you call when you’ve time to chat? x

  Luckily I had tons to do that day as I was finishing a website before handing it over to Annie to test, but though I tried to distract myself, all I could think was, Who is the father of my child?

  * * *

  • • •

  And then I had a breakthrough. In between bouts of work, I’d been trying to find out whether a DNA test could be done on a fetus. Just typing that into Google filled me with horror. Years ago, when I’d thought I might get pregnant, I’d had dreams of how I’d tell Harry. I’d thought of us buying a test together, gripping each other’s hand as we waited for the results. I hadn’t dreamed my baby might not be his. In one night, I’d ruined it. Both of us had ruined it.

  At first all I could see were invasive tests. I closed the screen. I couldn’t even think of doing that. I wasn’t going to put my baby at risk. Yet the thought of waiting for months and months until it was born made me feel dizzy with pani
c. I wasn’t sure I’d survive the wait. And how could I tell Harry he wasn’t the father when he was holding the baby in his arms?

  I started a different search. And then I discovered that there was another test I could take. It was much more expensive than the last, but I had my own savings account so that wasn’t a problem. If I waited until I was eight weeks pregnant, I could have a blood test that would test the baby’s DNA against a possible father’s. It would take five business days before the results came back and then I would know for certain who the father was.

  At the thought of that discovery I had to put my head in my hands and take deep breaths. I realized I had no proof that Harry had actually slept with Ruby. What if he denied it? He might say they were just good friends, that they liked to flirt, but that he would never be unfaithful. I was pregnant; all the proof of infidelity was against me, not him. I was the one with no excuse whatsoever.

  When I calmed down, I read further. Not only would I need to give a sample of my own blood, I’d need to supply the DNA of one of the potential fathers for comparison purposes. They talked about mouth swabs. Four were needed. How on earth was I meant to do that? I felt like screaming. Would I have to go round to Tom’s house to ask him to do it? I couldn’t do that; what if Ruby was there? And on the website it was really clear that a signature was required from each party. How could I ask Harry to do it? I couldn’t think of one reason on this earth that would convince him to do that. My marriage would be over immediately. I decided I would sign for Harry. I’d have to.

  I knew I needed to test only either Harry or Tom. The other would be ruled out that way. So I searched further, a different clinic, different rules, and found I could send in the nail clippings of the potential father. Nail clippings! I felt like I was on a seedy reality television show and there was an audience hissing at me. It did say that nail clippings might not give a clear result, but it wouldn’t give a false positive. A saliva swab was preferable but I wasn’t going to be able to get that. I looked further; if I could get a big enough sample of hair, there was a chance they could test that, too, as long as the roots were present. Harry’s hair was too short for that, I knew. Unless I pulled it from his head myself—quite a tempting option, actually—I’d never be able to get a sample. Panic surged in my belly. What was I going to do?