by Jon Rance
I couldn’t say anymore and I didn’t know what to say because I knew what had happened. It was obvious. Emma knew what had happened too; her face said everything. I lay on the bed next to her and held her until the ambulance came, the sound of the sirens reminding me of the day Dad died. Only it wasn’t my father this time, but my unborn baby that had leaked out and onto our bed.
Emma was asleep in the cold white bed and I was sitting on the chair next to her. She looked pale and so innocent; I watched the gentle rhythm of her breathing as her chest went slowly up and then down. It was past midnight and the nurse said I should leave and come back in the morning. Emma was tired and needed her sleep and I couldn’t do anything, but I couldn’t leave her. If she woke up, I wanted mine to be the first face she saw. If she needed a glass of water, I wanted to get it for her. We’d lost our baby only a few hours before and Emma, asleep or not, needed me in the same way I needed her.
I knew the next few weeks and months were going to be a nightmare. We were getting married soon and it was supposed to be the happiest day of our lives, and maybe it still would be, but at that moment I was numb. It was the strangest feeling I’d ever had. After Emma had fallen asleep, I’d finally let myself grieve for our lost child. I didn’t want to cry in front of her, she’d cried enough and needed me to be strong, but once her eyes were closed and the gentle hum of snoring escaped her lips, I let go.
It wasn’t as though I knew our baby yet or properly loved them, but I knew the idea of them and loved them for what they were going to be. I remembered back to the ultrasound and hearing the soft thump of their heartbeat and something inside of me cracked. I felt some primeval instinct that overtook everything else, and I wanted to protect the baby and protect Emma. There was nothing I could have done about it, I knew that, but a part of me still felt like I’d failed them.
The morning came early with the shrill rattling of morning rounds, mumbling voices and the smell of institutional food being cooked.
‘Morning, love,’ I said to Emma, leaning across and kissing her on the forehead.
She gave me a smile, but it was sad and numb. Eventually, the doctor came around and said she was fine to go home. Her body was healed, but her mind and her heart would take a lot longer.
When we got home, I had her sit on the sofa with a cup of tea while I made up the bed. I threw the old sheets and duvet away. I didn’t want the reminder of our lost child with us anymore and so I put on new bedding. Emma went back to bed for a few hours while I sat in the lounge and called Mum.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ said Mum when she answered. I didn’t say anything and instead broke into tears. I thought I was going to be strong. I thought I could handle it and that I’d cried enough already, but just hearing Mum’s voice, I broke down again. ‘Jack, what is it?’
‘It’s the baby, Mum; we lost the baby.’
Mum didn’t cry, miss a beat or dally in her own loss for a moment. There was always something so hardened about people of her generation. Life didn’t seem as precious to them as it did to us.
‘Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry, but miscarriages happen for a reason. Trust me, it will be OK. Just be there for Emma, take care of her and if you need me, for anything, call me and I’ll be there in a flash.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Love you.’
‘Love you too, Jack. You’re a strong boy. Be strong for Emma, she’s going to need you.’
I lay down next to Emma and we slept for a few hours. We had lunch in relative silence and then watched TV, but something had changed that we’d never get back. Maybe in time we would try for a baby again, but having lost something so important and so wonderful, it truly felt like a piece of us was lost forever. During dinner, as Emma nibbled disinterestedly on some cheese on toast, I told her my news.
‘I got a call from a literary agent yesterday. I have a meeting with them on Monday.’
‘Oh, Jack that’s wonderful,’ said Emma, her smile disintegrating quickly into floods and floods of tears.
June
Kate
I met Rebecca at university. Rebecca was the sort of person who’d done everything. She was the same age as me, but while at eighteen I’d done nothing spectacular with my life, she’d seen the Great Wall of China, the Great Barrier Reef, gone on an African safari, skied in Switzerland and sailed across the Channel. There was almost nothing she hadn’t done. Her bucket list must have been awfully short. However, of all the conversations we had, I best remember the one about Machu Picchu. It was the one place she said I simply had to go and ever since it had sat proudly at the top of my must-do list.
I arrived in Cusco and was getting ready for the four-day hike I’d been dreaming about for years. I’d even planned it so the day I finally saw the ruins of Machu Picchu was my birthday. Up until last November, I’d always imagined I would turn thirty in a pub somewhere in London, surrounded by close friends, getting drunk on expensive cocktails and making a fool of myself in a club until the wee hours of the morning. I hadn’t considered in my wildest dreams that I’d turn thirty at an ancient Inca ruin in Peru.
The journey to Machu Picchu began in a pub, where I was due to meet the rest of my group. There were ten of us so far. Two Canadians with the mandatory flags all over their outfits, an American also called Kate, a beautiful Swede called Irma, three Irish sisters, two young boys from Leeds who looked just out of school and made me feel very old, and then there was me.
‘Just waiting on one more,’ said our tour guide, a Frenchman named Claude. We had a local guide, but he didn’t speak much English and so the tour company also gave us Claude. Claude was thirty-five and one of those travellers who’d seemingly started travelling at the age of ten and never stopped. He had a tired, weathered look about him, as though he hadn’t slept in years. His skin was like leather and he had the look of Indiana Jones at the end of a film. I didn’t know if that was a good indication of what was to come or not.
We sat around waiting for the last member of our group to arrive. Eventually, the door of the pub opened and someone walked in wearing a multicoloured poncho. They looked as if they’d been lost in South America for the last six months. Either that or they’d just got off the plane and bought their whole outfit at the airport gift shop. But as they got nearer to our table, there was something about the walk, the way they moved and their hair; I had a moment of déjà vu. I knew them. I was certain of it. The long hair and traditional knitted hat covered most of their face, but when he took it off and flicked the hair away from his eyes, my heart burst out of my chest in excitement.
‘Jez!’ I screamed.
‘Kate, fucking hell!’ said Jez, walking towards me with a huge grin and then wrapping his arms around me. ‘What are the chances?’
What were the chances? A hundred to one? A thousand to one? I was utterly blown away. I hadn’t seen Jez in months, not since our awkward goodbye at the bus station in Thailand. It felt strange, almost surreal, that we were together again. I could only equate him with my time in Thailand, but a lot of weeks and miles had been notched up since then. I’d changed and I was sure he had too. That’s the thing about travelling, a few months on the road was more like a few years back in the real world. It felt like a lifetime ago that I’d stepped off the plane into the oppressive heat of Bangkok and been rescued by the dashing young man with the smooth toffee skin and brilliant blue eyes.
We spent an hour with the rest of our group before Claude told us to get an early night because we’d be leaving at an ungodly hour in the morning. The rest of our group went back to their hostels, while Jez and I stayed for a drink. We had a lot to catch up on.
‘Is it really you?’ I said, giving him a playful pinch on the arm.
‘I still can’t believe it. I remember you telling me you were coming here but I had no idea when.’
‘And what are you doing here so soon? I thought you’d still be in Australia or New Zealand bonking lots of young girls.’
‘Do people bonk nowadays?�
�� said Jez, making me fall into hysterics. ‘I think that was in the eighties, maybe the nineties, but people haven’t been bonking for a while. Shagging, doing the beast with two backs and a funny-looking middle, but not bonking . . .’
‘OK, I get it.’
‘It’s really good to see you again,’ said Jez and he smiled his electric smile.
I felt the tension that still lingered between us, like honey clinging to the lip of a jar, stretched out, unable to let go. I’d thought about him a lot since I left Thailand and wondered whether I’d made the right decision. Jez and I had clicked on so many levels. Was it destiny we had met again?
‘You too,’ I said. ‘But we’d better get off to bed. Early start and all that.’
‘Righto, Miss Jones. Don’t want to do anything reckless, do we?’ said Jez and I blushed wildly.
I was already worried about a repeat performance with Jez. Not that I needed to feel guilty this time, because Ed and I were on a break. I could do what I liked and if there hadn’t been feelings involved, if it had been just a laissez-faire bonk or whatever the kids called it, I probably would’ve let myself. The thing was though, I’d sort of promised myself that the last part of my trip was going to be about me. No more worrying about men. No agonising about Ed, my father or Jez.
‘Where are you staying?’ I said, trying to keep the conversation as mundane as possible.
‘Little place around the corner. The Flying Dog?’
‘The Flying Dog, seriously?’
‘What?’
‘That’s where I’m staying,’ I said and my heart, already squeezed tightly in my chest, began to feel like it was being suctioned through my body and into my lower intestines.
‘What a coincidence,’ said Jez.
‘Indeed.’
‘Fancy a nightcap back at the hostel?’ Jez stood up.
‘Maybe a small one,’ I said, trying to keep my emotions in check.
Outside it was cold and I was desperate to get back to our hostel.
‘Just one thing.’
‘And what’s that,’ I said, turning to face him; the yellow lights of the city gave his face an ethereal glow.
‘How are things with you and Ed?’
‘It’s . . .’ I said and then paused, trying to find the right adjective. ‘Complicated.’
‘That’s all I needed to know.’
‘And why’s that?’
We were just starting to stroll along the cobbled street, the far-away noise of celebrations filtering into my ears, when he reached down and held my hand softly in his. I could have pulled it away but I didn’t. I liked how it felt.
My alarm clock woke me up with a jolt. It was the first time in months I had to actually get up. Most mornings came when they came, but it was time to start the trek to Machu Picchu. I looked across at the alarm clock and the faint numbers barely visible through my slightly blurry morning vision. Was it really five-thirty a.m.? It was almost impossible to imagine it was the same time I used to wake up every weekday in London. Up at five-thirty, shower, spend half an hour straightening hair and applying make-up, have breakfast, drink a large black coffee before I left the house at seven to be at work before eight. Outside it was pitch black and my bed was warm. The nights in Cusco were cold due to the altitude and so I had sheets and blankets galore. Although the real reason I was so warm was the body next to me.
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ said Jez, reaching across an arm and pulling me close to him. ‘What time is it?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Probably not. It’s still dark so I’ll just go with too bloody early.’
‘That’s close enough. I’d better take a shower,’ I said and was about to get up when Jez pulled me over and on top of him. Through the darkness of the room he looked me in the eyes and then kissed me.
‘You know this time I’m not going to let you go so easily.’
‘We’ll see. Four days hiking through the mountains and you might be bored of me,’ I said with a self-conscious little smile.
‘I don’t think I could ever get bored of you, Kate.’
‘I give you two days,’ I said wriggling free and skipping off towards the shower room.
When I thought about Jez in the real world I knew it couldn’t work. He was twenty-two and I was almost thirty. It might not matter in Thailand and Peru, but it would when we got home. I’d be the crusty old girlfriend with the toy-boy boyfriend. He probably didn’t think it mattered but it did. Then, of course, there was Ed. I loved Ed, but I’d cheated on him and he’d cheated on me. Would we be able to get over that? As I stood in the shower, I thought about Jez and I smiled. He made me smile, and that was something that had been missing from my relationship with Ed for some time.
Jez and I met up with the rest of our group at seven o’clock for the beginning of our four-day trek. It was still dark when we set off on the bus for Habra Malaga, where we’d pick up the bikes for the first section of the trek. All I had for breakfast was a dark cup of coffee, a bread roll and an old Mars bar I had in my backpack.
It was still freezing and so we had to wear lots of layers and Jez was in his funny hat and poncho. I looked at him and thought of Ed. Ed would never be seen dead in an outfit like that. We were once invited to a fancy dress party for Halloween and I went as a slightly sluttier version of Little Red Riding Hood; Ed was supposed to be the Big Bad Wolf, but he couldn’t do it. I even went to the trouble of hiring the outfit and he said it made him look like a complete knob. I explained it was Halloween and that everyone would look like a knob, but he wouldn’t go through with it. Jez was wearing a multi-coloured Peruvian chullo hat and a poncho that had more colours than a paint fight at a playschool along with long hair, two weeks’ worth of facial hair and baggy purple hippy trousers. Ed would discount him as a hippy traveller layabout, a waste of space. But I didn’t think that at all. Jez was kind, warm, funny and intelligent and he made me happy. At that moment, he was exactly what I needed in my life. We still hadn’t had sex though and I wasn’t sure I could. We went to bed together the night before and kissed, but that was it. He’d asked, but I said I couldn’t. It still seemed wrong somehow. I also knew how much he liked me and I didn’t want to muddy the waters more than they already were. Keep things simple, I told myself over and over again as we lay in bed fighting the sexual urges that seemed almost too strong to fend off.
I decided that morning, during the four-hour bus ride, that I wanted to give him a chance. I had to see if Jez could be more than he already was. I guess what I needed to know was if he was worth giving up Ed for. If he could be my everything.
Ed
I couldn’t face the prospect of job hunting and worrying about how I was going to pay the mortgage once my savings ran out. Also, after my chat with Dad, I’d been thinking about what I really wanted to do with the rest of my life. So, on a bright Tuesday I went into central London. While the rest of the world was working, putting meaningless numbers in Excel boxes and plotting charts, I was idling about on Oxford Street, skulking about by the Thames at Embankment, going for a stroll past Buckingham Palace and then stopping for lunch at a pub in Covent Garden.
I sat at a table by myself and watched the world go by. Men in suits came and sat, talking loudly about their days, while tourists popped in for a quick pint before continuing on their way. Everyone, it seemed, had somewhere to go except me. I wasn’t a tourist or a worker. I was an inbetweener and suddenly I wanted to escape. I needed to get away and that was when I thought of Pete.
Pete Wilson was one of my housemates at university and from the moment I met him, I was in awe. He wasn’t extraordinary, he wasn’t the most handsome, the most intelligent or even the funniest person I knew at university, but he was the only one who knew with an absolute certainty what sort of life they wanted. While everyone else was still shaping and forming themselves into the doughy balls of their twenties, he was fully formed and incredibly happy at nineteen. Pete moved into our house in the sec
ond year and I spent two years with him learning what it meant to be truly happy.
I’d spent the last ten years trying to work out his secret and replicate his confidence, but it couldn’t be done because that sort of happiness can only be achieved when you know what it is you want. It was something that had taken me far too long to realise. No matter how much money I had, no matter how successful I was, I still wouldn’t have what he had – contentment. The only way I could have that was to find my passion and maybe the only person who could help me was Pete.
I found his number in my phone and dialled.
‘Ed bloody Hornsby,’ said Pete. ‘How are you?’
‘I’ve been better. I need to come and see you.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘It’s a long story. What are you doing tonight?’
‘Not much, but you do realise I live in Nottingham. It’s a bit far for a quick pint.’
‘I’ll be there by five. Can you pick me up from the station?’
‘No problem. I’ll see you then.’
I went home, threw some clothes in a duffel bag and left.
Pete was standing on the platform waiting for me. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, when he’d been in London for work and we’d had a few pints. As I got off the train and onto the platform, I realised that apart from the occasional trip to see my parents, this was the first time I’d left London in six months. Pete was packing a few extra married pounds these days and sporting a goatee beard.
‘Ed Hornsby, you old dog,’ said Pete, greeting me with a firm handshake.
‘Pete Wilson, looking very well,’ I said, patting him on his belly.
‘Downside of having a wife who can cook.’
‘Home cooking a downside? I can’t remember the last time I had a decent home-cooked meal.’
‘Kate doesn’t feed you?’
‘Not since she left for her trip, and even before that I worked such long hours, I usually just grabbed something on the go. The life of working in the City. Not anymore though.’