by Julie Cohen
I watch the film – something about spies in suits and glasses, something I never would have chosen to watch if I weren’t trying to please Quinn – and I decide: if I’m pregnant with Quinn’s baby, I’ll forget what I’ve learned. I’ll embrace my marriage, my child, my husband, I’ll do my best, I’ll be happy with what I’ve got, and I won’t look back.
It’s only as we’re fastening our seatbelts for landing that I realize I’ve made a decision very like this before.
Chapter Thirteen
‘SURPRISE!’
When we walk into our cottage, Quinn’s family is there. Derek and Suz are holding bottles of beer and our dining table has been spread with a flowered cloth and plates of food. Molly bustles up to us and hugs us both.
‘Welcome home!’ she cries. ‘I hope you’re not too tired. We couldn’t resist throwing you a little party for your anniversary.’
‘Good to have you back,’ says Derek, clapping Quinn on the back and kissing my cheek as if we’ve been gone for weeks.
I glance at Quinn to see if he’s planned this, too, but he looks as surprised as I am.
Suz hands Quinn and me each a bottle of cold lager. I start to take a sip, before I realize that I possibly shouldn’t. ‘How was New York?’ she asks.
‘It was lots of fun,’ Quinn says. I think that only I can detect the hint of strain in his voice.
‘I loved it,’ I add. ‘I wasn’t expecting it at all.’
‘And did you like the exhibition?’ Molly asks. ‘Of your mother’s work? I was telling Quinn before you left what a wonderful idea that was.’
‘It was very thoughtful of him,’ I say.
‘I think I would rather have a cup of tea,’ says Quinn. ‘Do you want one, Felicity?’
‘There isn’t anything you two have to tell us, is there?’ asks Molly. ‘If you’re not drinking, Felicity?’
‘Well …’ begins Quinn.
‘We haven’t had a decent cup of tea in two days,’ I interrupt. The last thing I want is for all of the Wickhams to know the pattern of the rest of my life before I’m certain of it. ‘Americans just chuck a tea bag in a mug of semi-hot water and call it good.’
Quinn throws me a look and I raise my eyebrows.
‘Well,’ says Molly, ‘you must be starving if you’ve only had that terrible airline food today. Come and have something to eat, and tell us all about your trip.’
Molly insists on doing the washing up before they leave, although Quinn’s clearly exhausted from our weekend of travelling and sightseeing. He sits at the kitchen table, rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair until it stands on end, answering his mother’s questions about every single thing we did. Tell your mother to go home, I think at him, but he doesn’t. He loves her too much to send her away, even when he’d prefer to go to bed.
I wipe the dishes and put them away into neat stacks. When my mother-in-law isn’t around, I let them air-dry, but I need something to do. I’m full of energy. I feel that I want to go for a walk or a long bike ride – something physical to tire me out until I’m as tired as Quinn is so we can feel the same thing and I can stop thinking, over and over again, about what I decided on the plane home from New York. About how all of this might end.
‘I’m glad the two of you had a good anniversary,’ Molly says for at least the fifth time, drying her hands on a tea towel and hanging it neatly on its peg. ‘You did well, choosing this one as a wife. The two of you really suit each other.’
‘Yes,’ says Quinn.
‘And you,’ she says, kissing me on the cheek, ‘you take care of my boy for me, will you?’
‘I will,’ I say.
‘Mum,’ says Suz from the doorway, ‘let’s allow these poor people to get some rest.’
Molly collects Derek from the front room where he’s been watching the sport and they say several more goodbyes before we watch them walk down the flagstone path.
Quinn is quiet. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘that was nice of them.’ I turn for the stairs, thinking about a shower.
‘Why didn’t you want to tell them you might be pregnant?’
I stop. ‘It’s so uncertain,’ I say to the banister. ‘I didn’t want to get their hopes up.’
‘You were happy enough to talk about it in the restaurant in New York, to strangers.’
‘Strangers aren’t going to be disappointed if it’s not true.’
‘I’ll nip out and get a test now,’ he says, and reaches for his shoes on the mat. ‘It’s Sunday, but George will give me one from his shop; he owes me a favour.’
‘No.’
His head goes up, eyebrows raised.
‘Don’t buy it in the village.’
‘Why not?’
‘Everyone’s already talking about our business, Quinn. I’ll go to the chemist in town tomorrow morning and get one. I’d rather we knew before the rest of Tillingford.’
‘Fine.’ He puts down his shoes. ‘I’m knackered, love. I think I’m going to lie down on the sofa and read for a bit.’
‘I’ll tell you when the shower’s free.’
I’m halfway up the stairs when Quinn says, ‘Felicity?’
I stop.
‘You do want to find out, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
I don’t sound as if I believe what I’m saying at all. But Quinn nods.
‘I really love you, you know,’ he says. He goes into the front room and picks up his book.
‘I know,’ I whisper.
I drive into Brickham the next morning while Quinn’s at work and I buy a pregnancy test at the big anonymous Boots in the shopping centre. I also select hand lotion, cotton buds and some shampoo, so as not to be so obvious, but the lady at the till doesn’t bat an eyelid. I suppose when you spend your life scanning incontinence aids and diarrhoea remedies, a single pregnancy test isn’t that interesting.
Knowing that Quinn is waiting for me to ring him with the results of the test, I dawdle around town window-shopping and text him to say I’m going to have lunch here. But I’m not hungry, so I browse around a bit more and buy myself a pair of Green Flash trainers that remind me of school PE lessons. I hesitate outside the Apple store, shiny and full of people trying out seductive hardware.
I haven’t caught a glimpse of Ewan for ten years, but people lead more public lives now. He must be on the internet. He’ll have a Facebook page or a website, where there’ll be pictures of him with whatever band he’s in. He might even be famous. I’m not exactly au courant with pop culture these days. If I wanted to look him up, this would be the place to do it. The people in the shop might try to sell me a computer but nobody would be watching me and nobody would care, and my search wouldn’t be traceable to me.
I shake my head. I’m not going to try to find Ewan, no matter how everything seems to be conspiring to make me think of him. It would be too much like contemplating cheating on Quinn.
If this pregnancy test is positive, I’ll ignore all of these feelings. I’ll forget all about Ewan and what we used to have, and if I smell frangipani and feel love again, I’ll try to move up that appointment with the neurology department because this feeling isn’t a sign, it’s a headache. I will try to get myself cured of this love, so that I can concentrate on the good relationship I am in.
If it’s negative …
I lean against the window of the Apple store, watching people walk by. All of them appear to be so purposeful. They’re carrying their bags of shopping, pushing their pushchairs, or walking their dogs. Talking and feeling and going about their business. I watch a frowning girl in skinny jeans and sunglasses, a middle-aged man barking laughter into his phone. A toddler scaring pigeons into a flapping cloud.
Seen from outside, like this, they appear complete. They know who they are, they know what they’re doing. Each one has a whole world within their heads.
Do I look the same way to them? I must. They can’t know that my reusable canvas bag, better for the environment, is filled w
ith things I only bought as distractions. They can’t know that in the next few hours, my life is going to change one way or the other. Buffeted by memory and circumstance and feeling.
I used to have a friend, Ollie, who would never make any sort of decision at all without consulting the palm reader who had a stall in the marketplace near her house. Before she went on a date, before she moved house or changed jobs, before she bought an outfit sometimes, she’d have her palm read and sometimes her tarot, too, to see if the signs were auspicious. When the date turned out awful or the outfit unflattering, she would claim it was because she’d misinterpreted the signs. Eventually she married the palm reader’s son, who was a property developer and quite charming, with the added attraction of a steady discount at her mother-in-law’s stall.
I breathe in deep, trying to smell frangipani. Some sign that I’m on the right course.
If it’s you, Mum, trying to give me a hint, I would really appreciate it if you’d turn up now.
There’s nothing.
But maybe that’s a sign in itself?
I had some hope that the pregnancy test would need to be done in the morning as soon as I got up, therefore putting off the moment of truth for another day, but when I get out the instructions at home, it says it can be done at any time after you’ve missed your period. I’ve wasted so much time in town that if I want to get it done before Quinn comes home, it has to be now. Even though I’m not ready.
I used to change my life so easily, moving from city to city, temporary job to temporary job. I should be ready for anything. I’m not.
There’s a wait of several minutes between peeing on the tab and replacing the cap, and seeing a result. I leave it on the edge of the sink on a piece of tissue and I go outside and walk down the lane, stopping to stroke the Hoffmanns’ cat. At the end, where it joins the main road, I stop and count to one hundred before I turn around and walk back. Mrs Taylor is in her garden weeding her beds and she waves a gloved hand at me in greeting. She gets up, grimacing at the pain in her back, and comes over to her gate. ‘Lovely day!’ she calls.
I’m glad of the distraction. ‘How’s your back, Mrs Taylor?’
We spend a good ten minutes chatting about her sciatica in the sunshine, and I’d gladly spend more, but she glances up at the sky and says, ‘Well, these dandelions won’t get rid of themselves.’
So I go back home. I take baby steps to the bathroom, linger in the doorway, thinking about ringing Lauren or maybe Naomi, deciding this isn’t a good time and that it would be disloyal to talk about this with anyone before I talk with Quinn, wishing Lauren would ring me anyway. But the phone doesn’t ring and I pick up the test.
It’s negative.
I turn it over, looking for something I might have missed. But it’s unequivocal: it says, in big bold letters, NOT PREGNANT.
I stand there holding it. I don’t feel anything. It’s as if my brain, my body, my heart, have all frozen in shock.
I was sure I was pregnant, I think, after an immeasurable time, and then to my surprise, I start to cry. Tears roll down my cheeks and I have to put down the test and sit on the toilet, my head in my hands, sobbing.
Even as I’m crying, there’s a part of my mind that is calm and is wondering why I’m upset. I didn’t think I wanted a baby. I thought I was doing it for Quinn. Am I crying in relief, then?
It would have been a good life with him, I think, and I cry harder.
My phone rings. Vision blurred by tears, I grope my way out of the bathroom and down the stairs to where I’ve left it in the kitchen. It’s Lauren ringing, ten minutes too late. ‘Hello,’ I answer, on a sob.
‘Felicity? What’s the matter?’
‘I’m not pregnant.’ Saying it out loud makes me wail.
‘You’re trying to get pregnant? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because – because I wasn’t sure I wanted to have a baby.’
‘So why are you crying because you’re not?’
‘I don’t know.’ I wipe my nose with my hand. ‘Really, I don’t know.’
‘You’re strange. You know that?’
I laugh shakily. ‘Can I come and stay with you if I need to? For a little while?’
‘Of course you can. Why?’
I find a paper towel and wipe my eyes. ‘I’ll tell you later. Can I come tonight?’
‘I’m on my way to Brussels this evening. Should be there for the rest of the summer. I can leave a key with the neighbours if you want. You can have the place to yourself.’
‘Yes, please. That would be good.’
‘Are you okay, Fliss?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I’m not. But it’s fate. It’ll be all right.’
As if to confirm it, my body chooses this moment to shoot cramps up my lower belly and back, a physical confirmation of the test I’ve just taken.
By the time Quinn comes home, I’ve stopped crying. I’ve had an incredibly long shower and put on a comfortable pair of jeans and a patterned top. I’ve pulled my hair back into a scarf and put on a bit of lipstick and mascara to stop myself looking so pale and frightened. I’ve also taken two ibuprofen.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I hadn’t thought any further than the pregnancy test, which I now know I believed, deep inside, was going to be positive. I don’t know what words to say to change everything, or if I’ll have the courage to try. Or even if I should. Is the crying a sign, too? If it is, is it more or less important than my feelings about Ewan?
Although I’m expecting him, I still jump up from my seat at the kitchen table when the back door opens and Quinn walks in. He’s holding a large bag filled, from the smell of it, with takeaway Chinese food.
‘Hi, love,’ he says. He sounds cautious, and when I check the clock on the cooker, he’s also half an hour later than usual. ‘There was a little bit of a queue.’ He puts the takeaway on the kitchen table. ‘I didn’t think we’d feel like cooking tonight. Whatever happened.’ He doesn’t pull out a chair to sit down, or go to turn on the kettle, or take off his shoes. He just stands in the kitchen, looking at me.
He knows, I think, but then that confuses me because he seemed even more certain than I was that I was pregnant. He was ready to tell his family and buy a pregnancy test himself, in a shop where it would be incredibly obvious why he was buying it.
‘What has happened, Felicity?’ he asks, at last.
‘I took the test.’
‘And?’
He knows, he knows, and he’s making me say it. I don’t know why he’s making me say it – if he knows that my saying it will hurt him. Why can’t we ignore it and carry on as usual?
Because we can’t. I’ve already decided that we can’t.
‘I’m not pregnant,’ I say.
‘You must be relieved.’
I step backwards in surprise.
‘What?’ I gasp.
‘You didn’t ring me. If you were upset, you would have rung me. Therefore, you must be relieved.’
‘I was upset.’
‘I’m not stupid. I understand now. You don’t want a child. You never wanted a child. Why did you say you did?’
I sit down again. ‘You wanted it so much.’
‘So you went along with it to please me? You can’t do that.’
‘It … seemed as good a reason as any.’
‘It’s not. It’s not. This is something we should both want, Felicity.’
‘I didn’t feel that I could say no.’
‘Why not? I didn’t pressure you into it.’
‘Of course you did,’ I mumble.
‘What? I didn’t say anything. I asked you if you thought it was time that we tried, and then I let you—’
‘You were thinking about it, all the time. I could tell.’
Quinn pushes his hand through his hair. ‘I was thinking. How can I help that? That’s not putting pressure on you.’
‘It is. It is, Quinn. It’s so obvious when you … when you want something. And then Suz
—’
‘I never discussed it with Suz.’
‘—and your parents were so pleased, and Dr Johnson, and everyone. Everyone wants a baby, Quinn, and you most of all. It’s in the atmosphere, all the time.’
‘You should have told me so. What good does it do to lie to me? How am I supposed to know that you don’t mean what you say?’
‘I did mean it,’ I say. ‘I was going to try.’
He’s pacing the kitchen now, his hair in disarray. Quinn is usually so calm and cheerful; I’ve only ever seen him angry at politicians and Rupert Murdoch. This is, I realize, our first real argument. My heart is pounding in my ears.
‘I can’t read your mind, Felicity. I try so hard to please you. I try all the time.’
‘If you’re trying so hard to please me, how am I supposed to disagree?’
‘What? That’s completely unfair. I only want what you want.’
‘That’s exactly the problem!’ I push my chair back, because it seems wrong to be sitting when he’s pacing. ‘How can I even know what I want, when you’re always trying so hard? When I never get a minute alone to think?’
‘You’re alone a lot. I’m out at work—’
‘But everywhere I look, I can see you! Everywhere I go in the village, everyone knows you and they’ve already got our lives sorted out for us, bit by bit, stage by stage. You might not say anything, you might not even be here, but I can see what you want, I know what you want – and who am I to stop you having a baby because you only want one because you love me!’
‘Felicity,’ says Quinn, ‘that doesn’t even make sense. Just say what you want. Just say it.’
‘I can’t. It’ll hurt you.’
‘You’re hurting me now, by pretending everything’s okay. This whole weekend in New York – it was awful, and it wasn’t supposed to be.’
I shake my head. Now that it’s come to it, the time to enact my decision, I can’t do it.
He drops to his knees on the flagstone floor in front of me. He takes my cold hands in his. He did this when he proposed to me, completely out of the blue, completely uncharacteristic, on a windy walk on the Ridgeway, with a ring in the pocket of his waterproof.