by Anna Kent
She scrabbled in her handbag and took out a scrap of paper with a number on it and, despite his protestations, Rohan reached out and took it.
Ten
Grace was always going to have babies. She was one of those girls who just assumed that it was her destiny to have it all – career, husband, kids – and, when she got together with Alex in Year 12, it was as if the universe had come together to grant her wishes. According to Grace, Alex was the archetypal boy next door: handsome, clever, sporty and popular. Their parents even knew each other.
‘Not just know each other but love each other!’ she told me. ‘When I told my mum I was going to lose my virginity to Alex, she actually took me shopping to Victoria’s Secret.’ Grace giggled, and I squirmed, unable to imagine such a moment with my dad. ‘She helped me choose a special set of lingerie to celebrate.’ She pronounced it properly, her French impeccable.
Alex was good at maths and science, apparently. He was at Manchester, studying Engineering. Serious, focused and utterly in tune with each other, the lovebirds studied together throughout A-levels, hung out together, finished one another’s sentences and spent their spare time planning their future together. The two families even holidayed together. Grace made the pair of them sound like the best-matched couple the universe had ever seen, which made me all the more surprised when I first met him.
‘Alex, this is my friend Abi,’ Grace simpered, as she pushed her boyfriend ahead of her into my room. ‘Come on, don’t be shy!’ and then Alex was there, too big for the space and not at all what I’d expected from the glowing description.
Yes, he was handsome if you liked that type, but also scruffier than I’d imagined, his dark hair dirty and a bit too long, and his jeans slung too low, gathering in pools above his grubby Converse. His skin was pale and one arm was heavily tattooed in a way I just wouldn’t have associated with Grace. But what concerned me was the flightiness I sensed. There was something reckless in his eyes that spoke of infidelity and heartbreak, but Grace was blind to it.
‘We’ve got our whole future mapped out,’ she told me as we lolled about in my room, and I tried to imagine the man I’d met agreeing to her saccharine plans. She had a folder in which she kept her notes, thoughts and contacts relating to her wedding, reception, dress and honeymoon. When she wasn’t studying or watching TV, she was on Pinterest, looking for ideas and adding them to the folder.
‘Why don’t you wait till you graduate, and then see how things go?’ I suggested. ‘You never know what curveballs life might throw at you, and your course is five years. It’s a long time.’
But Grace yippered on as if I hadn’t spoken.
‘The wedding will be small.’ She flashed me a picture of an elegant stone-clad house. ‘This is actually the registry office where I live, can you believe it, and the photos happen on this lawn right outside.’ She pointed to the lawn as she pictured herself smiling into the camera with her darling Alex. At least his suit would cover those tattoos. ‘It’ll be chic: just us and close family. Small but perfectly formed! No meringue nightmares! No frocky horror bridesmaids!’
Their friends would be invited to a wedding reception at the pub.
‘You too!’ she laughed, poking me. ‘You’ll have to get a dress! We’re going to have fish and chips and apple crumble with custard – none of that fancy stuff. I’m no Bridezilla, so please tell me if you ever think I’m going over the top. I just want the people who mean the most to us to be able to have fun sharing our day. After all, isn’t that what it’s all about?’
She and Alex were already saving up for the honeymoon. They would travel to Goa with backpacks – yes, she even had a folder of those on Pinterest – and stay as long as they could afford; they were going to travel about, ‘see a bit of India’, then come back and get jobs. I didn’t like to ask her how that worked when you were a doctor. If there licensing requirements and so on. Anyway, after a few years, when they’d saved up enough money – she didn’t mention it, but I bet she had a spreadsheet – they were going to have two children, ideally girls. I envied her certainty on that bit. What if they couldn’t have kids? What if they had a boy? Triplets? But the point was there: Grace and Alex had planned out their perfect future. It was decided. Everyone knew.
Eleven
Rohan held my hand as we walked home from the Tube station after the dinner with Meena and Mili, carefully avoiding the shortcut through the graveyard of St Michael’s, as we always did. The sun had finally set but there was still an echo of light in the sky to the west and the warm air slid over my limbs, giving me the smothering sense that I was swimming underwater. The High Street lay on a high point of town and there was a spot opposite Mr Ho’s Chinese from which, if you looked to the right, you could snatch a view down towards the spreadeagled tangle of Central London. It was second nature to face that way as we walked – to take in that view – and, tonight, as we looked, a shard of lightning speared the distant sky, illuminating for a moment the spikes of the skyscrapers that reared like jagged teeth from the urban sprawl below. We both jumped at the flash.
‘Whoa. Finally!’ said Rohan. ‘We need this weather to break.’
I counted in my head, waiting for the crack of thunder, wondering if the drama of a thunderclap was the push I needed to confront Rohan about why he’d taken the number of the fertility specialist from his mum, but the silence dragged on, and we turned into Albert Road, where the trees now added not shade but an extra layer of darkness. The leaves rustled and my insides shrivelled at the thought of bats going about their business just above my head, their veiny wings and bulging eyes swooping over us, their stringy legs and long toes clinging to the branches. Sometimes I’d squint my eyes half closed as I walked in this part of town and try to picture how the road could have looked in Victorian times; sometimes I fancied I heard horses’ hooves echoing across the centuries.
The average house price in Albert Road was higher than anywhere else in town. I knew this for no reason other than because Rohan was constantly monitoring it, like a surgeon monitoring his patient’s vital signs. A few more steps along our street and his head swivelled right to take in the house he most coveted: the symmetrical, red-brick, new-build ‘Georgian’ that looked almost rude thrust in a modest plot among the Victorian semis. I could tell just by looking at the family paraphernalia that littered the garage that it wasn’t coming up for sale any time soon – not that we’d ever be selling number fifty-nine.
The leaves rustled again as the edge of a breeze picked up and I looked down, concentrating on the uneven paving stones while I figured out how to bring up the topic of the fertility specialist. In taking the number, Rohan had admitted to his mother, to Mili, and to me that he thought there was a problem; funny how such a small thing as reaching out your hand could change so much. At the far end of the street, our house loomed in the semi-darkness, its eyes watching, unblinking, as we approached. In the attic window, something moved, caught by the breeze, maybe. I pulled my hand out of Rohan’s and squeezed it into a fist.
‘So, you took that number from your mum,’ I said when I was sure I could get out the words without them strangling me.
‘I don’t have to call the guy.’
I focused on the pavement. ‘Why didn’t you just tell her to butt out?’
‘Because… oh, for God’s sake, Abi. It’s just a number. I can tear it up if you like. Throw it away. I just took it to shut her up. All right?’
‘You took it to make her happy. Because that’s what you always do. You never stand up to her.’
Rohan spun to face me and stopped in my path. I stared up at him, surprised myself at my words because I usually liked Meena. I don’t know what Rohan saw in my eyes because, when he spoke, his words sent chills through me.
‘Hold on,’ he said slowly. ‘This isn’t about my mother, is it? It’s about you.’ He nodded, realizing he was right, and I thought: No. Not now. Not like this.
‘Don’t you want a baby?’ Rohan asked. ‘I
s that what this is about? Because if you don’t, I think you need to tell me.’ His face twisted as he fought to control his emotions. Lightning flared again, lighting us and the street for a fraction of a second as bright as the brightest day. Rohan and I stood frozen in a tableau. His hands were on his hips and he took up most of the pavement space. As the darkness after the flash released us, a dog barked a volley of howls and the trees above us rustled. I tried to sidestep Rohan, to dive towards the house, but my husband had an agility that surprised me.
‘Well, Abi?’ he said, blocking my way, and we stared at each other. His hopes, his dreams, his need to be a father shone out of his eyes; there was a desperation there, too. I swallowed.
‘Of course I want a baby,’ I whispered to the street but I felt as if the trees, the houses and the paving stones themselves could see through me. Again, out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement at the attic window and shame flooded through me. ‘More than anything,’ I said, and suddenly my eyes were full of tears and a lump sat hard in my throat. Rohan stared at me for a moment then pulled me to him.
‘Oh, hon, it’s okay,’ he said, holding me tight, his hands in my hair. My tears soaked into his shirt, mascara blackening the fabric. ‘I know it’s difficult.’
I liked how his voice sounded with my ear pressed to his chest. I didn’t want to move, to look up, to have to see that look in his eyes again.
‘I just… I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think it’s only me on this train. Sometimes you just don’t seem to be on board.’
‘I am,’ I said, muffled against him.
He hugged me tighter. ‘I know, darling. I know. I’m sorry. I forget that you bottle things up inside; that you’re not like me.’ He inhaled deeply and exhaled the breath as a sigh. ‘Can I tell you something else?’
I nodded.
‘I’m quite worried about leaving you. When I go to New York. Will you be all right?’
A sob rose inside me and I swallowed it back down. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the possibility of Grace being with me in the house; of Grace sleeping in the spare room; Grace sitting in the kitchen; Grace watching TV with me; and goosebumps pricked my skin. I didn’t reply; just tightened my arms around Rohan’s waist.
Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
‘So you agreed to work in New York for two months while Abigail stayed home. Were you worried about leaving her?’
‘Yes and no. Look, you have to know I had no choice. My boss made that very clear. He basically tapped me on the shoulder and said he thought I had potential. But if I wanted to continue progressing within the firm, the only way to do it was to take an overseas secondment. [sighs] It’s a tough business, competitive, and people have memories like elephants in that company. If you’re offered a secondment and you don’t take it, you’ll be passed over not only for any other secondments, but for promotions. It’s a fact of life that the people who get the promotions are the ones who have the overseas experience; the ones who’ve worked in the international offices, not the ones who stay put, whether that’s in London, Beijing or bloody Timbuktu.’
‘So, Abigail understood that you felt you had no choice?’
‘Yes, I think so. And, look: you know she’s an artist. You can’t count on that as a regular income. Yes, she was due to exhibit, and the chances are the paintings would sell, but you can’t depend on it. It doesn’t pay the bills. She hasn’t earned anything except pocket money painting bloody pets for the last four years so I’m basically supporting both of us, while trying to save money for the future. It’s not easy. I need those promotions. I need to progress. I can’t stagnate.
‘But, to answer the question, yes, I guess I worried a bit. I know she’s fragile. I know she doesn’t like going out. I know she lives a lot in her head but, at the back of my mind, I knew I had my family – my sister, and my mum – who’d be more than happy to keep an eye on Abs. I was already planning to give a house key to my mum. [chuckles] If you need anyone to keep an eye on anything, you ask my mum.’
Twelve
Back at the house, Rohan went on up to the bedroom. I ran myself a glass of water and drank it standing at the sink. The floorboards creaked overhead as my husband moved around the bedroom taking off his shoes and socks and changing into his T-shirt ready for bed.
I stared out at the blackness of the garden, inhaling the scent of plants that had roasted all day in the sun. So Rohan was going to New York. There was nothing I could do to change his mind – that, I realized – which left me with three choices: go with him; stay home alone; or invite Grace to stay with me. I sighed. Why couldn’t things be black and white? Grace was Grace, and it would be dancing with danger to invite her back into my life – but she also had an undeniably positive effect on my creativity. Would being with her be better or worse than being alone?
And then there was Rohan. My husband. I loved him and I didn’t want him to worry. If he knew I was going to have a friend here, he wouldn’t feel so bad about leaving me. Because he didn’t know Grace, he’d picture me safe with my friend, the two of us cocooned together in the house reminiscing over old times, no doubt, and he’d stop worrying. He’d know there was someone here to look after me; to make sure I got up in the morning and went to bed at night; to make sure I bought the groceries and ate enough food; and – I shrank a little into myself as I thought this – to make sure I didn’t drink myself unconscious.
But I didn’t want to tell him about Grace until I’d decided for myself whether I was going to invite her to stay. If I mentioned the possibility, he’d insist that she came, and I needed that decision to be my own.
I swilled the water in the glass and sighed again. Having Grace around would certainly have its advantages. I shivered as the feeling of laying new colours on the paper earlier in the evening came back to me, thrilling me because I could feel that they were the start of something that could be immense. Was it a coincidence that I started to get my painting mojo back the very day that Grace’s name reappeared in my life? Could having her back here be the catalyst I needed to paint a new series? My exhibition was looming and so far I had nothing to show.
Outside, the wind rustled the leaves of the oak tree and rattled the cat-flap door. With a huge sigh, I picked up my phone and over-typed the previous email.
Dear Grace. What a surprise! Sounds like you had a wonderful time in Australia, and how exciting to be moving back to London. Yes, I live in North London now, with my husband. We’d love to offer you somewhere to stay while you get back on your feet over here. When are you planning to arrive? All the best, Abi
I read the email one more time then sent it before I started my nightly checks. You never knew what tiny thing could trigger a full-scale disaster. Cooker – off. Gas – off. Smoke detector – working. Front door – locked. Back door– locked. Blinds – closed. Key – in door. Escape routes – clear. Rohan had long ago stopped trying to do these things for me.
Checks done, I continued up the stairs to my studio while Alfie watched from the landing, inscrutable. I’d left the window open and everything not weighted down had been disordered by the breeze. Over at the easel, I looked again at the colours I’d mixed. There was a kernel of excitement knotted in my belly about this portrait. When it was done, it could be quite possibly the best thing I’d ever painted.
I reached out and touched the now-dry paint on the paper and the palette, my fingers tingling with the anticipation of continuing, of laying down the frame and the colours on the canvas itself. Something bubbled inside me, giving me a sense of potential I hadn’t felt in years. I knew, quietly and calmly, that this would be one of a series, that there would be more. This was it. This was what I’d been waiting for and, for better or for worse, Grace would be the one I had to thank.
The temptation was there to sit at the easel, to close my eyes and let the portrait come, but I also knew I mustn’t rush it. I did a quick scan of the upstairs wind
ows, making sure they were locked and the keys accessible. In the bathroom, I reached up to the top cupboard, lifted down the old Nivea pot in which I hid my contraceptive pills, and popped one in my mouth.
Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
‘You mentioned earlier that you thought Abigail might be pregnant. Had you talked about starting a family?’
‘Yes, we had. [pause] We both want a child. We’re on the same page about that. [pause] It’s what every couple wants, isn’t it?’
‘Yet it wasn’t happening? Did you talk about it then?’
‘No. We just kept going from month to month like a rollercoaster; you know, the hope and then the disappointment, and the hope again that next month would be the lucky month.’
‘Had you considered any sort of intervention?’
‘Well, not really, but one night at dinner, my mother gave me a phone number for a fertility specialist – you know, one of these Harley Street guys. Abs was not happy. I didn’t realize it would be such a big deal. We’d been trying – I think everyone knew that; it’s pretty unusual in our community to wait so long after marriage to have your first child. I don’t know if Abs didn’t notice it, or if she was just burying her head in the sand, but everyone was waiting for her to get pregnant. Literally hanging for it. So, when Mum handed me the number, I took it without really thinking about it. But, even if I had, I’d have assumed that Abi would welcome a bit of help. It’s pretty dispiriting watching her get out her tampons each month, knowing that we failed again. I was worried that I might be the one firing blanks. Actually, I’d quite like to know… I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong in accepting a bit of help.’