last sentence all in capitals. They’d hadmore drinks and he’d put her in a taxi but she had the list folded up in her back pocket. She reached down and touched the corner of it, still there and real.
‘Romily? Why are you staring at me like that?’
She’d talked about a turkey baster. She’d said she’d do anything for him.
Her mind whirred backwards, trying to remember everything she’d said, in two strands: one about having a baby for him, and one about what she’d said otherwise, about how she felt. What had he heard? What had he understood?
He’d thanked her. He’d kissed her.
‘I’m trying to read,’ Posie said.
Romily jumped to her feet. ‘Toast. I’m making toast. Want some?’
‘Can I have it in my tent?’
‘Sure.’ Romily beat a retreat out of the bedroom and through the darkened lounge to the kitchenette, a cramped den of a space that Romily always thought looked as if it had been tacked on as an afterthought. She unplugged the kettle, plugged in the toaster, and put in the last two slices of bread, leaving the end because Posie didn’t like it. She poured herself a large glass of water and stood, not drinking it, chewing on her lip.
‘Shit,’ she said out loud to the cereal boxes, the dried-out basil plant, the unwashed mug in the sink. ‘I am a fucking idiot.’
Maybe Ben had been really drunk, too. Maybe this morning he wouldn’t even remember their conversation.
Who was she kidding? He’d remember every word. Ben never forgot anything, and he’d certainly never forget something like this. She took the paper from her back pocket and there it was, in black and white, in her own, more thanslightly wobbly handwriting: SEVEN:
ROMILY
WILL HAVE THE BABY FOR YOU
!!!
She crumpled it up into a tiny ball and chucked it into the bin. On second thoughts she didn’t want it in landfill for ever; she took it out and stuffed it into the compost pot, beneath tea bags and a banana peel. It would go out into the garden and the slugs would eat it into lacy holes, wasps would chew it up to make nests.
At least she didn’t feel hungover any more. Amazing what a whole-body panic-driven adrenaline surge could do for you. It was an entirely different type of sickness that was coursing through her body. She washed her hands and splashed her face in the kitchen sink, but it didn’t help. When the toast popped up, she smeared margarine and honey on it and brought it on a plate to Posie’s room.
‘Thanks, Centurion,’ said Posie without looking up from her book. Romily didn’t quite trust her voice not to give something away, even as absorbed as Posie was with the Romans, so she made a random sound and went into the bathroom to switch on the hot water.
In the mirror she looked as rough as she’d expected to, with the added benefit of a wild, hunted look in her eyes. It was the expression of a person who’d inadvertently given away the most important secret of their life and was waiting for the axe to fall.
Eleven years of keeping her mouth shut, of looking away, of smiling and going along and pretending. And then a shot or two of tequila was all it took, in the end.
‘Stupid,’ she muttered. ‘Stupid stupid stupid. He knows. Or if he doesn’t yet, he will.’
Because why on earth would you offer to have a baby for a man, to give up nine months of your life and etchstretchmarks into your belly and commit yourself to endless blood tests and pelvic-floor exercises, unless you were completely and utterly in love with him?
And always had been, since the moment you’d first seen him?
6
An Assignation
MEET ME IN the bar of the George Hotel in half an hour. Don’t tell anyone. B
Romily stared down at her phone. So this was how her friendship ended, on a Monday lunchtime: with a text and a meeting in secret to spare the feelings of the people they loved.
She was in Brickham Museum’s staff kitchen, ignoring the persistent dripping of the tap and the rattle of the fridge, trying to
‘Romily? Why are you staring at me like that?’
She’d talked about a turkey baster. She’d said she’d do anything for him.
Her mind whirred backwards, trying to remember everything she’d said, in two strands: one about having a baby for him, and one about what she’d said otherwise, about how she felt. What had he heard? What had he understood?
He’d thanked her. He’d kissed her.
‘I’m trying to read,’ Posie said.
Romily jumped to her feet. ‘Toast. I’m making toast. Want some?’
‘Can I have it in my tent?’
‘Sure.’ Romily beat a retreat out of the bedroom and through the darkened lounge to the kitchenette, a cramped den of a space that Romily always thought looked as if it had been tacked on as an afterthought. She unplugged the kettle, plugged in the toaster, and put in the last two slices of bread, leaving the end because Posie didn’t like it. She poured herself a large glass of water and stood, not drinking it, chewing on her lip.
‘Shit,’ she said out loud to the cereal boxes, the dried-out basil plant, the unwashed mug in the sink. ‘I am a fucking idiot.’
Maybe Ben had been really drunk, too. Maybe this morning he wouldn’t even remember their conversation.
Who was she kidding? He’d remember every word. Ben never forgot anything, and he’d certainly never forget something like this. She took the paper from her back pocket and there it was, in black and white, in her own, more thanslightly wobbly handwriting: SEVEN:
ROMILY
WILL HAVE THE BABY FOR YOU
!!!
She crumpled it up into a tiny ball and chucked it into the bin. On second thoughts she didn’t want it in landfill for ever; she took it out and stuffed it into the compost pot, beneath tea bags and a banana peel. It would go out into the garden and the slugs would eat it into lacy holes, wasps would chew it up to make nests.
At least she didn’t feel hungover any more. Amazing what a whole-body panic-driven adrenaline surge could do for you. It was an entirely different type of sickness that was coursing through her body. She washed her hands and splashed her face in the kitchen sink, but it didn’t help. When the toast popped up, she smeared margarine and honey on it and brought it on a plate to Posie’s room.
‘Thanks, Centurion,’ said Posie without looking up from her book. Romily didn’t quite trust her voice not to give something away, even as absorbed as Posie was with the Romans, so she made a random sound and went into the bathroom to switch on the hot water.
In the mirror she looked as rough as she’d expected to, with the added benefit of a wild, hunted look in her eyes. It was the expression of a person who’d inadvertently given away the most important secret of their life and was waiting for the axe to fall.
Eleven years of keeping her mouth shut, of looking away, of smiling and going along and pretending. And then a shot or two of tequila was all it took, in the end.
‘Stupid,’ she muttered. ‘Stupid stupid stupid. He knows. Or if he doesn’t yet, he will.’
Because why on earth would you offer to have a baby for a man, to give up nine months of your life and etchstretchmarks into your belly and commit yourself to endless blood tests and pelvic-floor exercises, unless you were completely and utterly in love with him?
And always had been, since the moment you’d first seen him?
6
An Assignation
MEET ME IN the bar of the George Hotel in half an hour. Don’t tell anyone. B
Romily stared down at her phone. So this was how her friendship ended, on a Monday lunchtime: with a text and a meeting in secret to spare the feelings of the people they loved.
She was in Brickham Museum’s staff kitchen, ignoring the persistent dripping of the tap and the rattle of the fridge, trying to
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