Laid-back, but not infuriating. Constantly supportive. Funny, when appropriate. A good listener. The type to remind her that there’s more to life than work, but not in a disrespectful way.
Her rock.
People gawped at us: the unlikely couple. But we’ve outlasted them all. I knew she was perfect for me the moment I set eyes on her. My Esther: stoic, stubborn, occasionally self-destructive in her loyalty, and in love with me for being everything she’s not, for being everything she’s too scared to be.
But the pregnancy has floored me. The game’s moved on to the next level, and all my skills are useless. She doesn’t want me to make jokes about the situation. She wants my support, but only when me being in the room doesn’t make her feel nauseous. She doesn’t want me to tell her that her work doesn’t matter while her health is suffering. That’s the hardest thing. I don’t know what she does want. I don’t know how I can help her.
I feel more useless and shitty than ever.
I want her back. The old Esther, the one I understand.
On the third day of her being bedridden, I walk to the Tesco Metro over the road on a mission to find food her stomach can keep down. My fingers are twitchy. I need to do something; some distraction. I call my mum because deep down in my messed-up wiring I still believe that it might help, even though it never does.
I’ve learnt a lot from my mum, but the most important skill of all is adaptability. That chameleon’s skin that twists and reshapes itself to suit whoever is watching. She’s had years of suffering at the hands of my father, building up layer upon layer of emotional scars, until the real her is buried so deeply beneath the crust, it’s hard to believe she’s still there at all.
I’ve learnt a lot from her without her even noticing, but this is new territory; me actually asking her for tips. I wonder what advice she gave Nick when Honor got pregnant.
He probably never asked her for any.
He knows everything, except for the fact that he doesn’t.
‘Esther is pregnant, Mum,’ I say. The words steam up the air in front of me. ‘Six weeks.’
There’s a slight gasp on the other end of the line.
‘Oh, congratulations,’ she says. There’s no hiding the nerves in her voice. Does she think I’m too hopeless to be a father?
‘Thanks,’ I say, swallowing. My eyes start to sting. I have a sudden, strong urge for a drink.
‘How’s she feeling?’ Mum says, a brittleness to her tone that tells me she only cares out of curiosity. Mum likes Esther, but she finds her intimidating. Esther’s career is too much – especially as Mum left school at eighteen and went to work at Dad’s garage, and her life has been drudgery ever since.
‘She’s not good,’ I say. ‘I don’t know . . . she’s been really sick. Non-stop for three days now.’
‘Oh dear,’ Mum says, in a way that feels both reassuring and dismissive. ‘I remember it well. Tell her it’ll pass. Aren’t ginger biscuits supposed to work?’
Ginger biscuits were the first thing we’d tried. I scuff at the pavement with my foot. What did I expect?
‘I don’t really know how to help her,’ I say. ‘I feel useless, Mum. I mean, we wanted this . . . but now . . . I don’t know. Everything’s changed. She’s miserable. She’s not even a little bit excited about the baby.’
‘I’m sure she’s just getting her head around it all,’ Mum says. ‘Your generation makes such a fuss about these things. Most natural thing in the world, becoming a mother. She’ll be fine.’
‘But she’s so sick . . . she doesn’t seem to want to eat much at all.’
‘If she doesn’t want to eat, then don’t make her eat,’ Mum says. ‘She’s got plenty of meat on her bones, she’s not going to starve to death. I know it’s a worry, but it’ll pass before you know it.’
I thank her (for nothing) and hang up without bothering to ask how Dad is.
In Tesco, I buy the things on Esther’s list: melon, rye bread, yoghurt and plain cornflakes. Weird combination, but she looked like a woman possessed when she asked for them. As I pay, I spot the cigarettes behind the counter, and ask for a packet of Marlboro Reds and a lighter too.
Smoking has always been my thing. I am sure once upon a time it was cool, but as I’ve got older, all I ever hear is how disgusting it is.
A year ago Esther paid a hypnotist to help me quit. I went to one session then realised it was a waste of time. I didn’t need to be hypnotised, I just needed to want to stop. And so I did. I did it for her. I’d do anything for her.
But I’m stressed and I can’t have a drink so . . . I put the cigarette to my lips and flick the lighter, the heat from the spark tingling my fingertip.
Esther’s sickness isn’t the only thing bugging me this morning. I sent my books to my accountant last night, who replied this morning with my figures for the year accompanied by a shitty comment about it being the eleventh hour.
The good news is, I don’t have to make any payments on account.
The bad news is, I’ve earned so little, I don’t have to make any payments on account.
And then there’s the small matter of my debt.
It’s never bothered me much before. Esther’s always earned more than enough for us both, and I always thought one day I’d make it, and any short-term financial woes would vanish. But the whole ‘becoming a father’ thing adds a new pressure. I know how disappointed in my work situation she is already, even though she’d never say it.
I can’t fuck things up again. As I walk along, feeling the nicotine rush into my bloodstream, I try to picture my future a year from now. I’m a great believer in living in the present – after all, who knows if you will even still be here tomorrow? But in a year’s time the baby will be four months old, or thereabouts. Esther will be on maternity leave.
Esther will be on maternity leave, and everything will change.
I push open the front door and stamp my feet up and down on the doormat.
‘Another lovely day,’ I call down the narrow hallway. ‘How are you feeling?’
I go through to the bedroom. Esther is sitting up in bed, the ever-present bowl in her lap.
‘Did you get the cornflakes?’ she says, like a starving woman, which I suppose she is.
‘Yes,’ I say, laying out all her requests on the duvet in front of her. ‘Do you want me to cut up the melon?’
She shakes her head.
‘No, just give me the cornflakes.’ She reaches for the packet, her hands shaking as she opens it and begins to eat them in handfuls. They scatter across the duvet.
‘I’ve made a doctor’s appointment,’ she says, in between mouthfuls. ‘I can’t go on like this. I have to get back to work.’
Is it my paranoia or is there a dig there? She doesn’t know about the desperate emails I’ve given up sending to anyone and everyone I’ve ever worked with. I haven’t done a gig since November. I can’t do it anymore, can’t keep begging people for support slots. The humiliation is too much, especially when I have to watch them afterwards and realise they’re no better than me, they just got lucky, someone liked the look of their face, they knew someone who knew someone . . . or the worst reason of all: their dad owns the club.
I look back down at my pregnant wife, ravaging a box of cornflakes. What would my father say if he knew the months were stretching ahead of me like a vast open space, with not a single booking to fill them? Oh God, it would make his year.
I close my eyes and exhale. Gotta pull myself together.
I can’t do this bit for her, but I can do the rest. Perhaps this is fate, dealing us a hand, showing us the way. After all, Esther wants to work, she loves her job. It’s more than a job to her, it’s a vocation. And she’s as successful at hers as I am unsuccessful at mine.
Yes, perhaps this is all meant to be.
Once the baby is born, E
sther can go back to work, and I can be the perfect father, the perfect husband. We’ll be like all the other modern families: the breadwinning wife, the stay-at-home dad, the adorable child growing up with cool parents.
Everyone will envy us, be amazed at our set-up. They just won’t admit it.
Esther
I haven’t eaten anything substantial for over a week, and the only thing I can stomach in terms of liquids are tiny slivers of ice cubes that I push to the corners of my cheeks, keeping my head very, very still as I let them melt. I daren’t even move to the loo without bringing a bowl with me, just in case, but I hardly need to go anyway. I must be really dehydrated.
It’s as close to the feeling of dying as I can imagine. And it turns out, according to my GP, that this miserable condition has a name: hyperemesis gravidarum.
‘Getting fashionable these days,’ he says, one eyebrow raised, as he writes on my notes. ‘Ever since Princess Kate had it.’
I feel fury boiling inside me at the indication that I am doing this as some twisted way to get attention. Thankfully, the rage turns to retching, and I throw up violently into the bag I brought with me. That shuts him up. I only wish some of it had landed on his shoes.
‘I’ll try you on some anti-emetics,’ he says, printing out a prescription. ‘I have to tell you there are some risks to the baby with any medication, especially this early on. It’s up to you whether or not you want to take that risk. The likelihood is that the sickness will pass in a few weeks.’
My face crumples again at the unspoken message in his words: if you can’t deal with this for a short time, for the sake of your unborn baby, then you really don’t deserve to be a mother.
I take the prescription from him. Robin, who has sat silent throughout the appointment, finally speaks.
‘What kind of risks?’ he asks, and it feels like a gut-punch to my already annihilated insides. He’s putting the baby first. Before me. Which of course he should, but still . . .
‘I believe there may be the risk of some congenital abnormalities – cleft palate is the main one, I think. There will be information online, if you look it up.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, standing, keeping my breath short and shallow so as to avoid inhaling the smell of anything too deeply.
All I want is to get out of this place, and back to the cocoon of my bed.
The next day I wake to find Robin standing over me, glass of water in one hand and the pills in the other.
‘Are you going to take them?’ he says. My face is crusty from the night before. I feel disgusting, and cover my mouth with my hand, staring at the pills.
‘I can’t, can I? I can’t take the risk.’ My eyes fill with tears; I look up at him. ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘I think only you can answer that,’ he says, but then he pauses for a few seconds before continuing. ‘But of course, I’m not the one who’s suffering, Tot.’
I sit up in bed gingerly, taking the pills with my shaking hand and clutching the glass of water.
‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to swallow them,’ I say.
‘Why don’t you try?’ he says. ‘I’m here.’
I put the pills carefully on my tongue, and take the smallest sip from the glass. I can smell the washing-up liquid he must have used to wash the glass and I concentrate with all my strength on staying completely still as I sip the water.
Somehow, I manage to swallow them. The thought that these two little pills are now swirling around inside me, with the sole intention of making me feel better, lifts my spirits ever so slightly, and I find myself smiling.
‘That wasn’t so bad,’ I say, handing the glass back to Robin. I lie back down on the bed.
‘Well done,’ he replies. ‘Let’s hope they help you.’
Help you. The guilt hits me, along with the results of my Google searches the day before. Possible heart defects. Cleft palate.
How can I do this to my baby? What kind of mother takes risks like that?
‘I’m meant to be visiting Dad this weekend,’ I say, feebly. ‘I don’t know what to do . . .’
Three hours on the train to York. It feels as impossible as swimming the Channel.
‘I know,’ Rob replies. ‘I’ll call him, tell him you’re poorly.’
A single tear meanders its way down my face. My dad has emphysema. He lives alone. I’m his only child, I never miss a visit.
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘Let’s wait . . . maybe these pills will help.’
By 11am, I am sick again, and I don’t stop.
The next day, Robin calls the antenatal department at the hospital, and they agree to send someone out to see me.
‘It’s very rare,’ the midwife says, taking my blood pressure. I can smell the grease in my own hair. The skin on my face is dry and itchy, my lips covered in flakes. ‘Just bad luck, but please don’t worry, the baby will be fine. He’ll be taking all he needs from you, you poor love.’
She tries to take some blood from me for routine antenatal tests, but there isn’t a chance of her getting any.
‘You are dehydrated,’ she says to me, and I can see in her expression something else; the flicker of concern that this won’t be easily fixed. That she’s been here before, and that nothing helped.
I nod weakly, hoping my eyes are imparting my desperation enough. Help me. I want to cry. Please. Make it stop.
‘I think you need to be admitted,’ she says. ‘Stay here, I’m going to call someone.’
She finds me a place on a gynaecological ward, and they tell me I need to be hooked up to a drip, a succession of grey cardboard bowler hats on my lap. A nurse comes round periodically to take the used bowls away. She doesn’t seem to understand what I am in there for.
No one seems to know much about what is wrong with me, or how long it will last. I am only eight weeks pregnant; the next thirty weeks stretch ahead like an unbearable life sentence.
I know how ill I am, because I don’t care about anything. For the first time ever, I don’t care about my work – my team, the board of directors, all waiting on me for answers about things that used to seem critically important but that now don’t seem to matter at all. I don’t care about my friends. I barely even feel bad for not going to see my dad.
But most worrying of all, I don’t even think I care about the baby. The baby I so desperately wanted.
The baby I have already secretly named: Riley.
It’s impossible to imagine there’s a baby inside my hollow stomach anyway. How could anything be growing inside me when I am constantly throwing up every source of nourishment? Nothing makes sense.
Robin came with me when I was admitted. After sitting by my bed for hours, playing a game on his phone, he left to get some lunch. For himself, of course, not for me. When he returns, he looks paler than usual. As he leans over to kiss me on the cheek I catch the faintest scent of beer on his breath. It’s 2pm.
‘Have you been drinking?’ I say, my throat so hoarse I can barely speak.
He frowns at me, and I wait for the lie.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I . . .’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say, turning my head away from him slightly. And it doesn’t. In the state I’m in, I don’t care if he’s been getting drunk. He could have been snogging that Kim girl all morning for all I care.
I keep thinking about her, Kim. She appears in my fractured sleep, like some kind of witch with her long, dark hair and black-lined eyes. She sits at the corner of my bed, cackling, as I vomit rainbows. It occurs to me that she wasn’t in fancy dress at the party either. She was wearing skintight jeans and a lace top that showed her bra.
Who was she? As soon as I feel better I am going to call Vivienne and find out everything.
I look back at Robin, who has sat down on his chair and is staring into the middle-distance. I’m not even sure I want hi
m here at all.
In many ways Robin feels like another responsibility, someone else I must try to make feel better. Put on a brave face for. He’s laid-back and self-sacrificing most of the time, but when things go wrong, his coping methods aren’t the healthiest. He’s tried to hide it from me, over the years, but I know all about his little self-medications. Smoking, to occupy his ever-twitching hands. Drinking, to block things out. Drugs, to convince himself he’s happy.
Punching things, when the frustration gets too much.
‘What have they said?’ he says, leaning forward and taking my hand. His is cold and the sensation as it comes into contact with mine feels heightened, as though my whole body has been reprogrammed, all my senses overactive.
‘Nothing, really,’ I mumble. ‘Except that I’m so dehydrated my veins have collapsed. They’ve gone to get a paediatric anaesthetist who’s going to use an ultrasound machine to try to find a vein, so they can get the cannula in, and then they’ll connect me to the drip.’
He nods, completely out of his depth.
‘I want it to end,’ I say, and a single tear escapes my dehydrated eye and runs down my cheek. I flick it away before it reaches my lip – even the thought of it landing there makes me feel nauseous again. ‘I can’t stand this. This isn’t me!’
‘I know,’ he says.
‘They weighed me. I’ve lost half a stone already,’ I say. ‘In two weeks.’
His eyes widen at that. I imagine the joke that probably flashed through his mind, unspoken: well, you always said you wanted to lose some weight.
He reaches up to stroke my face, and something about the rush of air that passes as he does so makes me throw up straight on to his arm.
Now
Esther
‘Hello, my name’s Detective Sergeant Anne Tyler and this is Detective Constable Tony Williams. May we come in?’ the female officer says.
There’s something in her tone that reminds me of the school nurse, the time she stroked an antiseptic wipe across my knee when I fell off the slide at primary school. Matronly.
The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020 Page 5