Dear Thing by Julie Cohen

here for a minute.’
    They gazed upward into the complicated branches of the pear tree. The blackbird, which had stopped singing at their approach, resumed its song.
    Be here now
. That was what Hannah, her Yoga for Fertility instructor, always said. Let go and relax and feel the moment. Claire had never been very good at that. One time Ben had bought her a spa weekend that included a session in a flotation tank: an entire hour of lying on her back in warm, extremely salty water, gazing up at false stars made of fairy lights, listening to flighty New Age music. You were supposed to relax and feel the moment. Be part of the water, be part of the music. Some people dropped off to sleep, the therapist said.
    Claire had clenched her fists, closed her eyes to keep out the salt water. She’d felt like a board, a corpse, every small movement sending her spinning and rippling towards the sides of the tank. She kept on bumping her head and feet on cold tiles.
    Maybe the whole problem had been that she was too focused on the past and the future to let go. Maybe she needed to do more things like this: a few spontaneous moments with her husband, lying on the grass.
    She took his hand and his fingers curled tight around hers. She felt her muscles letting go, relaxing into the earth.

5
The Hangover
    ROMILY SCRAPED OPEN one eye and then immediately shut it. From her brief glimpse, the room appeared to be wobbling.
    Tequila. Ugh. How did Mexicans survive that stuff?
    Slowly, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, propping herself up against the headboard of her bed, and took a few sustaining breaths before she attempted opening her eyes again. A needle of pain stabbed her temple, but the room more or less stayed still, so she reckoned she was ahead. She looked around in case she’d miraculously remembered to put a fresh glass of water on her bedside table, but all that was there was a teetering stack of books and, half-hidden beneath a slightly used tissue, her comb.
    So that’s where her comb was. She looked at her watch, still on her wrist: half past ten. ‘Posie?’ she called, and winced.
    No answer. Romily swung her legs out of bed and stood up. She was wearing her jeans and T-shirt from the night before, but she had managed to remove her shoes. They lay beside the bed, upside down. She stepped over them and went next door to Posie’s room.
    Posie had made a tent out of her duvet with one of Romily’s long-handled nets as a pole and lay inside it, reading a book by torchlight. She glanced up when Romily peered in.
    ‘It’s Sunday,’ she said. ‘I don’t have to go to school.’
    ‘I know,’ said Romily, though she was relieved to hear it. She didn’t feel quite able to stand for any length of time, so she sat on the floor next to Posie’s bed, running her dry tongue around her dry mouth. ‘How was Mrs Spencer?’
    ‘She was fine. I beat her at charades and she let me stay up till ten.’
    ‘What are you reading?’
    Posie showed her the cover, which featured men in armour with big helmets. ‘Romans.’
    ‘I don’t feel all that well today, Pose.’
    ‘That’s okay.’ She pointed to a stack of books beside her in the tent. ‘I’ve got loads. Did you and Ben win the quiz?’
    ‘I don’t think so. No, actually I can say with authority that we didn’t. We’d never have drunk so much if we’d won. When you’re older, I advise you to stay the heck away from tequila.’
    ‘The Romans drank aquavit.’
    ‘And look what happened to them. It’s probably a good idea to steer clear of that too.’
    ‘All right.’
    Romily closed her eyes again and leaned her forehead on the side of Posie’s bed. It was quite restful in here, with the blinds drawn and only the sound of Posie turning pages.
    They hadn’t won the quiz last night. Because she’d been too busy offering to have a baby for Ben.
    Romily’s eyes flew open and she sat up straight. She hardly noticed the spike of headache.
    Ben. That list. The