‘I can’t believe you’ve done this to me,’ I hiss, as I haul Robin to his feet, but he is too drunk to even hear.
Robin
In case I had ever doubted myself, this proves it.
I am an arsehole.
I have never done anything like that before. Even when Esther and I were still what women’s magazines would call ‘early days’ and I was out every night at a different bar or club, networking, watching shows and trialling my act, and there was a lot of alcohol and a lot of girls who made it pretty obvious they wanted to sleep with me.
I’ve never been that kind of man.
It doesn’t help that I wake up on 1 January 2015 with very little recollection of what happened the night before. It’s 7am, and I roll over in bed to see Esther, lying beside me. Staring.
She doesn’t speak.
‘Morning,’ I say, hesitantly. My head is pounding and my stomach feels empty. It’s been a while since I’ve had a hangover this bad. God, I’m such an idiot.
Esther doesn’t say anything, she just begins to cry.
‘What . . .’ I say, but it all starts coming back to me in patchy pictures. The party. The Jägerbombs – who did I think I was, a fresher from Leeds? That girl with the huge eyes. What was her name? The way she kept stroking my arm, telling me how funny I was.
I close my eyes. No. It isn’t her fault. I won’t be that man.
You bloody egotist, Bird.
‘I’m . . . sorry,’ I say. The adrenalin of the situation makes my whole body tingle. And that’s when the blinding realisation hits me. I think I know why I did it.
I’m a shit. I did it because I could. Because there’s no way out now. Esther’s pregnant. She won’t leave me over this.
I’ve got her, finally. After all these years. I want to cry with the relief of it, but I pull myself together and look up at her instead. Esther has always held me at arm’s length. Not anymore, she won’t. She can’t afford to now.
But first, the apologies, because none of it is her fault and I’m in the wrong. Completely.
‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been a total arse. God, you deserve better. I’m not even joking. You do.’
Esther continues to cry, but she doesn’t get up. I tentatively reach forward to stroke her face with my hand, and she lets me.
‘I just don’t understand. I can’t believe you did it,’ she says. ‘I’ve been lying here all night, thinking, who is this man? How could he do that to me? At a party? A party where I was just in the other room? Who even is he? What’s happened to my husband? The man I love, who always looks after me and puts me first?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. My own eyes begin to water. My default setting is disappointment with the world; I’m always just a couple of emotional slumps away from tears. ‘I’m so sorry. I just . . . I was so drunk. I don’t know what got into me. I’ve never done anything like that before. Never been that stupid. You know that.’
My stomach makes a low grumbling noise, as though trying to contradict me.
‘Never,’ I say, my voice firm. ‘I mean, it wasn’t . . . She kissed me. I would never cheat on you. Please, Tot, you have to believe me.’
It’s true. Esther has a part of me that no other woman will ever have. Not even Sarah.
‘I mean . . . I’m pregnant,’ she whispers, her tears falling silently on to the pillow by her face. ‘Who does something like that?’
‘An absolute idiot, that’s who. It was a moment of complete stupidity,’ I say, taking her hand and squeezing it, holding her eye contact. There’s a second of blind panic – what if she does decide to leave me? And take the baby? My stomach lurches. ‘I’m so sorry. I promise you. I was just totally drunk. It was nothing. I can’t even bloody remember it properly, so does it even count? Shall we just say it doesn’t count?’
She frowns. A bridge too far. But I can see in her eyes that she wants me to explain it away and make everything better. She wants me to provide a reason for it, to make sense of it all, so that she can forgive me. It’s a realisation that relaxes me slightly. She is still here, in our bed, in our flat. She wants to forgive me.
‘You drink too much,’ she says. ‘You always have.’
I nod. She’s right.
‘I’ll stop,’ I say, in desperation. ‘I’ll give up drinking completely. While you’re pregnant. How about that? We can be boring sober bastards together?’
She sniffs, turning her head away. Of course that’s not enough. That’s the very least.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, even though I’m not feeling too clever myself. ‘Do you want me to make you toast? Tea? I can nip out and get you some freshly squeezed grapefruit juice?’
It’s an in-joke – we both hate it, can’t believe that some people consider grapefruit juice to be posh. But she doesn’t smile.
I don’t know what to do, how to make it up to her. This is uncharted territory for us. We never fight. We squabble, bicker, banter . . . we don’t fight.
She doesn’t say anything, she just closes her eyes and rolls her face into the pillow. I sit up. My stomach flops over the top of my boxer shorts, and I feel revolted by myself. I’m not overweight, but I’m heading that way. I used to play five-a-side every weekend, but that fell by the wayside over the last few years as my mates all got married and had kids. I suppose I should join a gym. Give up booze, start working out. It’s January, I’d be the ultimate cliché.
I’m already a cliché. What kind of loser cheats on his pregnant wife?
I jump out of bed like a toddler, begin to pull on the t-shirt that’s closest to the bed, before realising it was the one I wore last night. It’s stained with something that looks like salsa. I remember that Kim girl feeding me nachos, laughing as the topping tumbled out of my mouth and fell down my chin.
Where was Esther when that was happening anyway? I should have stayed with her all night.
I throw the t-shirt into the wash basket and pull another out from the drawer. Esther is still lying in bed, her face half-buried. I pad down the hallway and switch on the thermostat. The flat is freezing, but the timer broke a few months ago and I keep forgetting to call a plumber to get it fixed. I’ll do that, today. Or not today, as it’s New Year’s Day. Tomorrow. Penance. I’ll make it up to her. I’ll be the man she deserves. I’ll be the father our baby deserves.
Maybe I’ll even look into those cracks in the ceiling.
In the kitchen I make myself an excruciatingly strong cup of coffee and a pile of toast and take it back to Esther in the bedroom.
‘Here, my angel,’ I say, and she sits up as I lay it next to her on the bedside table. ‘I’ll just get you something to drink.’
I wonder why she’s not yelling at me, then I remember that she’s pregnant and exhausted and probably feeling sick.
I perch on the edge of the bed and watch her eat.
‘I can honestly barely remember what happened,’ I say, when Esther has finished eating her toast. ‘Maybe my drink was spiked?’
Esther glares at me.
‘By a girl?’ she says, a hint of sneer coming through now. Good for you, I think. Come on, give it to me, I deserve it.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I honestly don’t know what got into me . . .’
‘Pathetic.’
‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but it was only a kiss . . .’ I grasp. ‘I was so drunk . . . I probably just didn’t want to offend her. She’d been coming on pretty strong . . . I guess . . .’
‘Offend her?’ Esther says, and while it’s not a shout, her voice is definitely raised. I feel my blood pressure rise, but it’s good. Perhaps this is what we need: a big fight, followed by a tearful reconciliation. Get it all out in the open, give me what I deserve. Let’s clear the decks and move on.
‘Shit, baby,’ I say, rubbing my eyes. ‘Honestly. I was just hammered.’
‘How many other times are you just hammered? How many other times has there been “only a kiss”? We’re married!’
‘None! I barely ever go out anymore,’ I say. ‘I’m not a cheat. I can’t explain it. I was just really drunk, I’m sorry. It’s been an intense few weeks, you know, with the pregnancy and . . .’
‘Don’t you dare!’ she says through her tears. ‘Don’t you dare blame it on me being pregnant!’
‘I’m not . . . fuck . . . I’m not! Tot, I’m sorry!’ I say, my voice a rush. ‘I just . . . I don’t know what to say.’
Our eyes meet and there’s a second when I realise exactly what her reaction means. Even though it’s awful. Even though what I did is indefensible.
It means she loves me. She needs me. Really needs me.
Finally. Pitiful validation of my worth.
But then she blinks and lies back down on the bed, turning away from me, and I lean forward and hold her awkwardly, my ageing, unfit back complaining at the position, and we both cry and I resolve never to do anything like this again.
Esther
I forgive him because I love him, but also because I don’t have a choice.
Two days later, on 3 January, my nightmare begins.
It felt like Robin spent the whole of New Year’s Day apologising. It became relentless by the end – my constant questioning, my brain turning over the reasons for it in my mind, wondering if he was in fact a massive cheat and I’d just never seen it before. Despite the fact we’d been together for years, that we knew each other inside out and he’d never done anything suspicious before.
He had a habit of coming home late at night, drunk, or staying out until the early hours, but I had no reason to believe it was anything more than the downside of his job. I knew he liked a drink. He certainly made the most of the social side of his work, but he always told me he loved me, that I was the only one for him, and I had never had any reason to doubt him.
But in the light of what had happened, I questioned everything. And he cried and I cried and he said sorry, and then he admitted that he thought maybe it was some kind of mini ‘midlife crisis’ or reaction to the news he was going to be a dad.
I could understand that, sort of.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. And tired of it all. He promised he would never do anything like that again. There was nothing left to say. We’d said it all, picked it apart until there weren’t even bones left.
I had two choices: believe him or leave him.
I’m pregnant, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t leave him. He is my world.
Yesterday, we went for a walk at Morden Hall Park, a National Trust property just down the road. It was a bright, crisp winter’s day. We talked about the future, speculated on whether the baby would be a boy or a girl.
I wondered what Viv would say about the kiss, how smug she would be, and my jaw physically ached. It wasn’t OK yet, but I was assimilating it, putting his behaviour into a box and storing it under the metaphorical stairs in my mind. It was a minor transgression. Robin had always been there for me over the past five years, supporting me and taking care of me and cooking for me and cheering me up when I was down.
I could forgive him, for the sake of the baby I could already picture as part of our family.
I could forgive him, for the sake of the baby I was so desperate for us to have.
I wake up feeling weird. It’s 6.30am, and still dark outside. I think back to last night – we’d ordered a pizza. I’d chosen a margherita, something bland. Pregnancy is already subtly changing my tastes.
Before I even manage to sit up in bed, I vomit all over myself and the duvet.
‘Shit,’ I say. The force of it takes me by surprise, making my eyes water. Robin wakes up beside me.
‘Stay there,’ he says, snapping from bleary sleep-state to wide awake in seconds. ‘I’ll clear it up. You poor thing.’
I lie back down on the pillow, reaching for a tissue to wipe my mouth. But before Robin comes back in the room, I’m sick again. This time, I try to catch it in my hands, but it drips through my fingers and on to my pyjama top.
‘Oh God,’ I say, my eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, if you wouldn’t mind letting me wake up properly before vomming all over the place, that would be much appreciated,’ Robin says, smiling, wiping me down with kitchen roll. ‘So inconsiderate.’
‘The pizza?’ I ask, to no one. But I know it isn’t the pizza. The nausea remains, humming in my stomach and making me afraid to move my head.
‘Now,’ Robin says, and I can see he wants to make a joke of the situation, which is his method for coping with most things. ‘Don’t shoot me but . . . where are the spare sheets again?’
‘God,’ I say, my throat burning. ‘They’re in the bottom drawer.’ I point at the chest of drawers facing the bed.
‘That’s logical. Do you want to go and clean your teeth while I do this?’ he asks.
I stare at him, wondering why it feels so hard to even contemplate moving to the bathroom.
‘OK,’ I say, slipping my legs out from under the duvet, but before I even reach the door, my stomach lurches again.
Robin brings me a bowl; I’m sick repeatedly for twenty minutes. Eventually I’m staring down at what looks like poisonous Lucozade. My stomach feels as though it has been taken out of me and shredded, then dumped back in again. Everything aches.
When the initial bout subsides, I call 111, tell them I am six weeks pregnant, that I’ve been sick all morning, that I can’t get out of bed.
I can tell that my naivety makes the woman on the other end of the phone want to laugh.
‘Is this your first pregnancy?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘I doubt it’s food poisoning,’ she says, briskly. ‘It’s probably just a touch of morning sickness.’
Morning sickness? Morning sickness? It isn’t possible. Not this, this absolute hollowing-out of my insides.
‘No,’ I say, with more strength than I have mustered all morning. ‘I’m definitely ill.’
‘Well then,’ she replies. ‘Just make sure you stay hydrated. There’s no risk to the baby. Just keep sipping water every ten to fifteen minutes, and call us back if you can’t manage to keep it down.’
I do what she says. At noon, Robin comes back from the shops with Dioralyte, ginger biscuits and Coca-Cola.
‘Here you go,’ he says, glancing down at my bowl. ‘Just sip the Coke, the sugar will give you strength. Mum’s remedy. Quite possibly a load of bollocks but worth a try.’
I stare at the bottle, take comfort in his confidence.
My lips are dry. I reach over for my lip balm on my bedside table, smearing some over my lips. But something about the movement, the gesture, or the fact that I’ve sat up a little and can smell Robin’s coat, the metallic tang of the cold air from outside, makes my stomach turn over, and before I know it, I am grabbing the bowl again.
My eyes are full of tears.
‘I just want to sleep,’ I mumble. ‘I’ll try the Coke later. Thanks, though.’
Robin pauses, staring down at me. I can see the feeling of uselessness flash over his forehead. He wants to help, but he can’t. He has always been so concerned with cheering me up. I am suddenly so grateful for his presence, the fact he is here beside me, taking care of me, that I can barely remember how angry I was just a few days ago.
‘OK,’ he says, softly. He reaches a hand down and strokes my sticky hair away from my forehead. ‘I’ll leave you to rest, Sleeping Beauty. Just so you know, you’ve never looked hotter.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And try not to worry. I looked it up, morning sickness doesn’t last very long. By twelve weeks you should be back on your feet and changing the sheets yourself again.’
Twelve week
s! He might as well have said twelve years.
‘And apparently it’s a sign the baby is healthy,’ he says. ‘Nature has it in for women, huh? But it’s actually a really good thing.’
‘Right,’ I say. He edges nearer and the smell of his coat wafts past my nostrils again. I bury my nose in the pillow.
I am sick twenty-two times that day. By the end of it, I’m sobbing with exhaustion while Robin is on the phone to NHS Direct again, who tell him that I should keep sipping water. I go back to bed at 7pm. Lying perfectly still is the only way I don’t feel nauseous.
‘This can’t be normal,’ I say, as Robin tries to tie my hair back with a hairband. ‘How can I keep being sick when I haven’t eaten anything? There must be something wrong with me.’
As I lie in bed, I listen to Robin in the other room, on the phone to his mum. Making excuses for us. We’re meant to be going to see them all tomorrow. He doesn’t tell them I’m pregnant. I’m frightened I might lose the baby. How can a baby grow when its mother has literally nothing in her stomach? It doesn’t make any sense.
I feel as helpless as a newborn myself. And I certainly can’t face replying to the messages Vivienne has been sending me non-stop ever since that awful party.
How are you? I’m so sorry about Kim. I don’t know what she was thinking. I’m furious with Sean for inviting her! I’ve never liked her much! If it’s any consolation, she’s a shit actress.
I don’t reply, but still the messages keep coming.
You can always come and stay with us for a bit if you need to. I could kill Rob. Just look after yourself. It’s not just you that you have to take care of now, remember. You’re pregnant.
Melodramatically, I think, I’m not pregnant, I’m dying.
Robin
For once, I feel out of my depth.
What are you meant to do when the person you love is suffering and there’s nothing you can do to stop it? I’m so used to having all the answers, to being the hero. All I’ve ever wanted is to make her happy. To make myself into Esther’s Perfect Man.
The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020 Page 4